


Asterism

by PlexFlexico



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cockwarming, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom / Sub Negotiation, Drunkenness, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff, Injury, Light Choking, Light Dom / Sub, Light Spanking, Mentions of carnage, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, alcohol consumption, light Knife Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24780406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlexFlexico/pseuds/PlexFlexico
Summary: He had been a semi-regular customer for the last cycle or so, coming in every few days.A Mandalorian, huge and heavily armored in blue.At first it was just for a drink, taken through a drinking tube pushed up under his helmet. After a few months, likely after he learned more about you through the grapevine that seeds gossip in any town like yours, he started paying you for information along with his fiery beverages...
Relationships: Paz Vizla/Reader
Comments: 61
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

He had been a semi-regular customer for the last cycle or so, coming in every few days. A Mandalorian, huge and heavily armored in blue. At first it was just for a drink, taken through a drinking tube pushed up under his helmet. After a few months, likely after he learned more about you through the grapevine that seeds gossip in any town like yours, he started paying you for information along with his fiery beverages. 

He wanted to know when there was imp activity nearby. People curious about him or other Mandos. When. How many. Names if you could get them. Overheard conversations. He paid for your news in various types of credit, and always with polite thanks. Your conversations were kept impersonal at first, as you knew the danger it posed for a Mandalorian to reveal too much to outsiders. It was hard not to engage in some form of small talk, though, and eventually you found yourselves discussing current events, little things about daily life, a point of philosophy relating to some bit of news you’d shared or some event that had captured everyone’s attention. 

His quick mind and deep understanding of his own ethical and moral framework and that of others made for a lively conversation partner, and as the months wore on you found yourself watching the door when he hadn’t been around for a few days, hoping that it was him each time it swung open. He was never gone more than three days and you tried very hard not to let it show how relieved you were to hear that deep, modulated voice floating towards you over a drink at a quiet back table. It wasn’t anything more than a silly crush, you told yourself. You were nothing more than an informant, a supplier of uncut liquor, and a way to pass the time while there was still some in his glass.

_Don’t get yourself in knots over this. Nothing could ever come of it. You know their ways. You’re just a sucker for a muscled philosopher-poet with a warrior’s heart. This is simply the unfortunate product of too many stories told to you by your mother of heroes and saviours._

Then there came a week when he didn’t pass through your door at all. One week became two. You found yourself irritable and anxious. You’d watch the door, always disappointed that the figure striding through was far too small to be the one person you were looking for. 

Sixteen days, but you weren’t counting. 

Eighteen. Still not counting, exactly. It was just that you knew it had been that long because — Because you had been counting. 

Then it was twenty. Twenty five and you weren’t sleeping well anymore, cursing yourself in the daylight hours for a ridiculous obsession with a man who is blatantly and wholly uninterested, and spending your nights with a sick, sour feeling of worry and fear. 

Knots, indeed.

It was getting late and you were getting ready to kick out the last of the habitual drunks and drag yourself to the rooms you kept in the back of the building for yet another restless night. The door opens and you’re about to call out that it’s too late when you look up and see a familiar figure filling the doorway. You can’t hide the sigh of relief at the sight of him. His hands twitch at his sides, like he had been about to reach out but he stilled himself. A spark of something lights in your chest, but as he moves into the room it turns to ice. He’s moving far too slow, far too carefully. His armor plating is scarred with blaster burns and new dents. You cross the floor without thinking and as you stand mere inches from him you can smell smoke and sweat and under it all the sticky, coins-in-a-hot-hand smell of blood. 

“I need your help.” His deep voice is tired, betraying his current injured state with harsh breathing the modulation turns to static on the inhales. 

“Can you walk?” 

“I can walk,” comes the gruff response, though he sounds unsure. 

“Go to the back, second door on the left. The grey one. Door code is 33851. I’ll be right there.” You turn and quickly go to the bar as he heads to the back. You tell your bartender to lock up for the night and grab a bottle of overproof moonshine and a bottle of the Mandalorian’s favourite liquor, a spicy, strong drink you also enjoyed. 

You find him slumped against your doorway. “Couldn’t — couldn’t get the door to stop shaking,” he mutters. The normally buff coloured under armor is torn, dark, and wet under the gap in the plating at his side. Kriff. No-no-no-no. You get the door open and do your best to help someone who weighs three times what you do into the small living space. He starts to head for the couch but you lead him to the bed, knowing you’re going to need room to work. 

He lets out a pained groan as you help him lower himself to the mattress. He sinks down heavily, hissing from the sudden jostle, and then just sits there panting with his head down. You grab your medkit, and your boiler, setting the boiler on the dresser and the kit on the floor by the bed. Next you grab a basin, filling it with some cool water and placing it by the medkit, then go to the small linen closet to grab a half dozen towels, some sheets, and a large, clean blanket. 

You drop the linens on the table and then slide it across the space to the bed. Dropping the towels and sheets on the bed next to him you double over the blanket, spreading it over the table. You kneel down between his knees and look up into his visor, “I need to see where you’re hurt. I won’t remove your helmet, but your cuirass and vambraces need to come off. Will you allow me to help you?” 

He nodded stiffly, “Yes. Thank you.”

He removes his gloves and vambraces and you lay them gently on the blanket on the table. Then come the pauldrons. You help him with the straps of his cuirass, carefully lifting the heavy armor off of him. You can feel his gaze on you as you gently lay it on the table, but still can’t stop yourself from laying your hand over a particularly deep gouge in his backplate showing bright, newly exposed metal. You shudder at the thought of the blow this must have deflected. Turning back to him you see that he’s removed his heavy under armor and is now just in a once-white undershirt that’s ripped and splotched with blood. His arms are a map of old scars and fresh wounds, and there is a particularly nasty cut on his neck just above where it curves into his shoulder. The most pressing matter, however, is still under his shirt, and that’s the wound at his side that is slowly pulsing a red trickle with each beat of his heart. Grasping the hem of his shirt, your fingers graze the hot flesh of his stomach and you suck in a breath. 

_Get a grip on yourself you hussy! Yes, he’s a solid wall of muscle under just the right amount of flesh. Yes, his skin is soft, despite the scars. Yes, you can smell something beneath all the evidence of the carnage he’s just been through that’s making your mouth water so that you want to lick —_

_Okay, enough of that._

“May I?” It comes out of your mouth sounding a lot more timid than you wanted it to, and you sincerely hope he has no idea of the thoughts that had just crossed your mind. He nods, visor still on your face. You lift the shirt off him carefully and set it with his under armor. 

Walking over to the sink quickly you concentrate on scrubbing your hands well, thankful for the moment to collect yourself. Unfortunately any additional composure you’ve gained is lost the second you turn around and look at him.

He’s covered, absolutely covered, in scars. Even without the armor he’s absolutely massive, his biceps seeming as big around as your thighs, and you were no fey little thing. There were a few wounds here and there, but mostly bruising. You focus first on the wound at his side. Carefully lifting his arm and draping it over his helm you kneel beside him to get a better look. 

It’s deep, about four inches long. You carefully lay your hand on the ribs above the cut to see if any feel broken. The Mandalorian lets out a ragged gasp and you yank your hand away. “I’m sorry — did that hurt?” 

He shakes his head. “No. No, it’s fine. I — I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

You’re not sure why he’s apologizing to you, but you settle back on your knees and go back to checking his ribs, making sure your touch is light but deliberate. Satisfied that nothing underneath is broken you open your kit and pull out two of the few bacta patches you have. The cut is too deep to be just stitched and something vital has been sliced with the amount of blood still oozing out. You set the patches aside and grab the boiler, adding the hot water to the basin and carefully begin cleaning the blood and dirt away from his skin. 

Slowly his breathing begins to steady, and as you bathe him you can feel the adrenaline rush that had him on the verge of flying apart begin to abate. When he’s clean enough to start patching him up you apply the bacta patch to his side. “Now, this next bit is going to hurt like fire, but just hold on, okay? If I can’t get the bacta into the wound I’m concerned it’s going to seal up the top without touching what’s underneath fast enough.” You lay one hand on the bacta patch and grip his opposite shoulder, hard. “Ready?” 

“Go,” comes spitting out of his helmet. 

You apply pressure to the bacta patch to force out more of the medication and then quickly begin to rub it in circles, opening the wound and allowing the bacta to seep in. His body stiffens and his hand flies up to wrap around your hip in a punishing grip. When you’re satisfied you’ve gotten enough bacta into the cut you stop moving and simply apply pressure, allowing the numbing agent to begin its work. Slowly he relaxes, but his grip on your hip remains tight.

Before you stand you take your hand off his side and slide it over his on your hip and squeeze, keeping his hand there as you rise and slide in to stand between his legs to look at the cut on his neck. It’s not deep, but the edges are jagged and there’s dirt and debris caught in the raw flesh. You probe carefully around the edges and don’t find anything to indicate that there’s something caught deeper underneath. As you run your hands over his skin you can feel the grip on your hip change, his hand melting to the curve under it and his thumb gliding to nestle in the hollow at your hip bone. 

You stand for a moment, just letting him hold on to you as his pulse pounds under your palm. You felt like you could stand there forever, just feeling him warm and alive under your fingers, but he’s still hurt and needs your help. 

“I have to irrigate this cut on your neck. It’s not deep, but it’ll get infected if I don’t clean it properly,” you say as you remove his hand from you, giving it a gentle squeeze. He drops both arms to rest on his thighs and you kneel again to reach into your kit. Grabbing a bottle of saline you rise and place a folded towel underneath the cut and start to gently wash out the soil caught in his skin. His hands come around and flutter along the backs of your calves as you work, suddenly gripping you there when you lightly pull the cut open a bit to make sure you got everything out. He hissed slightly, then stilled, but his hands didn’t move. You apply the bacta patch and then wipe up the last trails of water on his skin. 

Almost without thinking you place your hand on the back of his neck. His head comes forward to rest on your stomach, his breathing still heavy, though steadier than it was earlier. 

“You need food and rest.” You massage the back of his neck lightly, and his weight sinks into you a little more. “Go into the fresher, wash your face, get the rest of your armor off and you can sleep here.” 

His head flies up, “No! No I can’t — If I’m found here they’ll — I can’t let you.” His fingers are kneading at the back of your legs, and you’re sure if you could see his face it would be a mask of desperation and exhaustion. 

“Shhh-shhh. Hush.” Rubbing up and down his spine as you keep a steadying hand on his neck you try to quiet him. “You’re safer here than anywhere you could go. Watch.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him as you move away. The air in the room feels chilly now that you’ve stepped out of the reach of the heat radiating from your late night guest. The door is set into a small alcove, and just inside the room there’s a small panel on the wall. You punch in a code and the panel slides open revealing a series of buttons. You hit the top one and he jumps as heavy blast shields close off the entrance and the two windows. 

“This place used to be owned by a smuggler. I bought it for a song when he found himself on the bad end of a few too many deals.” Reaching out, you knock on the solid metal surface. “This room is a fortress. Not even the imps would spend the firepower it would take to get to a single Mandalorian if they’re locked in here.” 

His visor swept the room and his stiffness eased somewhat. It’s obvious he’s been through it since you saw him last and you want to ask, but this is not the time. Not when he’s locked in here with you and vulnerable.

“Go wash. Have a shower if you want. I’ll make you something to eat and you can have it while I take my own shower, okay?” His shoulders slump and he nods, rises and walks to the fresher. He stops at the doorway. “Thank you,” rumbles quietly out of him and then he goes inside and shuts the door. 

Working quickly you heat some soup and make a quick meal out of meat, vegetables and spices. Setting some bread and napkins on a tray you turn to tidy the area by the bed. The table slides back in place with some difficulty due to the heavy load, then you pick up the evidence of your triage and set things away. Calm and order are what he needs. Calm, order, and rest.

When he emerges he’s carrying his lower armor and has obviously taken full advantage of the shower and used the sonic to clean his heavy canvas pants. He pads across the room to the table in his bare feet, then carefully places the rest of the plating he’s carrying onto the blanket. 

Setting the hot food on the tray you carry it to the bed, then gently take him by the arm and lead him back to sit down again. 

“Eat.” You place the bottle of liquor you brought from the bar and a tumbler on the floor by his feet. “Have some of that, too. I’ll knock on the door before I come out, but I plan to take my time. Don’t rush.”

***

A long shower was just the thing your tired body needed. You took the time to wash your hair and scrub, lingering as long as possible. When the water started to cool you shut it off and got out, drying off and pulling on a soft dress. If you were spending the night on the couch you planned to be as comfortable as possible. 

It felt odd to knock on a door from the inside. You heard a slight shuffle and a muffled click, then, “It’s okay,” comes drifting to you through the wood of the door. 

He’s turned off the overhead lights and turned on the small lamp. It must have been too bright once his visor was no longer protecting his eyes. He’d finished the food and had set the tray in the kitchen by the small sink. You see the bottle’s been opened and he’s had one, maybe two glasses of the potent drink.

Fetching a drinking straw from the kitchen you hand it to him then grab the bottle and fill both glasses. 

“You don’t have to talk and I don’t need any explanations. If you need help I’ll help you however I can. If you need a place to hide you can stay as long as you need.” Your declaration is punctuated by you folding yourself down to the floor and tossing back the contents of your glass, welcoming the burn in your chest and hoping it covers for the burning you feel in your cheeks.

You pour yourself another. It’s not every day you invite a man to sleep in your bed (even if you likely won’t be in it) under even the most mundane circumstances, let alone a Mandalorian, injured and obviously on the run. A drink or two to calm the nerves is just what you need. 

He sucks back some of his own drink, his visor pointed at you. “Why are you helping me?" 

"You need help. I won’t turn you away,” you shrug, knocking back another shot.

“You don’t care that I’m being hunted?" 

"No, except that I’ll keep the blast shields shut for the night until we can figure out what the next move is.” You peer up at the place where you are sure his eyes are, “I don’t think you’re here out of a desire to cause me any trouble. I think you just need someone you can trust, yeah?" 

"I do.” A simple admission, but one that seemed difficult for him to make.

“Well, then I guess that works out fine.” You fill your glass and his again. 

“You tryna get me drunk?" 

"You turning down free drinks?" 

"Nope, just hard to get legless through a kriffing tube.” He tilts that impassive metal mask your way for a moment and then says, “Get up on the bed and sit facing the headboard.” 

“O-oookay.” You comply, just tipsy enough to go along with whatever he’s suggesting. You’re sure it’s not anything impure but you’re curious. He grabs the bottle off the floor and then goes to the dresser, powering down the chrono. Then he turns off the lamp, plunging the room into perfect darkness. 

“How the hell are you goi— Night vision. Right?” 

“You’re pretty sharp for an aruetii,” he jokes.

“Behave, you big brute, or I’ll boot you out,” you giggle. 

You feel his weight settle on the bed and then you feel his back settle against yours. A small sigh escapes his modulator and then you hear a soft click and a quiet hiss. The unmistakable sound of a bottle being held up for a good chug reaches you through the blackness, followed by the press of the bottle against your arm. You take it and throw your head back against his solid form and drink, then pass it back. 

“Loophole?” You’re trying not to laugh at the thought that Mandos, for all their stoic insistence about ‘The Way’, use loopholes when it suits them. 

“Something like that.” He huffs a small laugh into the dark. “Forgivable, at least.” The sound of his unmodulated voice caught you by surprise. It was just as deep, but warmer. 

The silence stretches out and you hear him take another swig. 

“Got anything stronger kicking around?” 

“Yeah, that’s the other bottle. Should be right beside the bed.” 

He turns away from you and you wobble a bit as he reaches down and grabs the moonshine. He turns around again and you can feel his breath on your back. You sense a bottle coming over the top of your head and being dangled in front of your face and hear the liquid sloshing. It’s the bottle that definitely isn’t moonshine. You take it from him carefully and he settles back down, cracking open the bottle of what amounts to overproof speeder fuel with a slightly better flavour.

He takes a big swig and — “K'oyacyi!” he husks out through a burning throat. 

“You asked for stronger.” You take a sip from your own bottle and laugh. 

The two of you sit together, back-to-back in companionable silence, drinking and thinking your own thoughts. The Mandalorian leans back against you, rubbing the top of your head with the back of his own. 

“You have stars on your ceiling.” His voice is blurred just slightly by the alcohol. 

“I do. I painted them there to remind me that I’m not alone.” 

Silence punctuated by the sounds of him raising the bottle to his lips follows. He swallows, and then drinks again.

“They’re gone,” he says quietly. “All of them. Killed or scattered. I went back to see if anything was left — there were three of them waiting. They had the same idea —” Once he started talking it was evident that this was the poison in the wound that needed to be purged. He told you about the fight in the forge with the beroya, about the jealousy and the anger. He spoke of not hesitating when the call came. The firefight in the streets. The imps finding the Covert. Getting the children to safety. The days of running and hiding. Coming back and finding the imps still there, in his home. Finishing them off. 

“…and then I didn’t know where else I could go. So I came here.” At this last his head comes back again to rub against the top of yours. He sighs and takes another swig. “I’m drunk,” he announces.

“Given what’s in that bottle I’m not surprised.” 

“So you were trying to get me drunk,” he slurs at you with amusement.

“No, I had a plan to get you drunk and I carried it out. I saw the state you were in when you came through my door and it was a done deal. There was no trying, I just did it.” 

“Why? You wanna steal my blaster?” He’s chuckling to himself, probably trying to imagine you attempting to overpower him. 

“If I hadn’t, would you have told me any of what you told me? Or would you have just let it fester?” Turning your head you lay your cheek on his back. “You came here because you were hurt and needed help. Bacta’s great, but it can’t cure everything.”

"Hmmmm, you are sharp for an aruetii.” There’s the sound of the cap being screwed back on the bottle, then you’re being jostled as he turns to sit on the edge of the bed and put the bottle on the floor. In order to steady yourself while he’s moving about you draw up your knees, laying your head on them, and wrapping your arms around your shins. When he’s set the bottle down he pauses, you feel him shift again and the ghost of his warm breath is on your back once more. 

A massive hand comes to rest on your arm, then the other. “I —” He starts and stops, sounding unsure of himself, or maybe he’s unsure of you. 

“It’s okay.” 

He leans into you then, and his arms come around and across the front of your legs, his fingers seeking and intertwining with yours. The cheek pressed to the back of your neck is hot, the stubble against your skin rough. 

“Were you ever married?” It’s the first real personal question he’s asked. 

“I was, a long time ago. I was very young, still, when he died. We weren’t married for more than a half-cycle.” The memory of it, after all these years, doesn’t hurt like it used to. Enough time will wear away the sharp edges of anything, you suppose. 

“What happened?” 

You’re grateful for the darkness, and for his arms around you. “Same story as a billion other girls, I guess. My father had a desirable daughter and ambitions. He traded the former to satisfy the latter. My husband wasn’t a very good man, and it wasn’t long before he started a fight that the other person finished in a very permanent way.”

“After that?” He’s nuzzling his cheek against you and it’s sending very pleasant shivers down your spine. 

“After that I was ‘damaged goods’, and once I managed to finally get out of that backwater vac-tube outlet I had a hard time letting go of that. Then it was just a habit to be alone, to make my own way as I pleased, so that’s how I stayed.” Squeezing his fingers in yours you ask, “And what about you?” 

“Never married.” He buries his nose at the nape of your neck and inhales your scent. “When I was young I had no time.” He kisses the back of your neck, gently, lips barely touching you. You can’t hold back the gasp that escapes from your throat, “No one I wanted enough.” He kisses you again, a little more deliberately, and it makes your head spin. 

It’s not just his lips making your head spin, though. You have to stop this now, before it goes too far. Before there’s a space for regret to crawl into and make itself at home. Gripping his fingers tight in yours you start, hoping he understands.

“We have to s-stop.” His lips are trailing along your skin and he pauses at your words. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he says into the sweet place where your neck meets your shoulder. 

“That’s not a fair question. I don’t want you to stop, I never want this to stop,” you can feel his lips pull into a smile against your flesh and it almost shatters your resolve. “But you’re drunk, I’m drunk. This isn’t fair to either of us. We can’t decide anything and if this is going to happen — I need to know you mean it, I need to know I mean it, that it’s really what we want with clear heads — otherwise it’s — it’s not right.” 

His mouth against you is enough to drive you wild and your control almost breaks when he starts speaking, his lips brushing against you and stealing your breath. “You’re right. Maker, I wish you weren’t.” He pulls you to him, arms about you a little tighter, and moves his lips to your ear, “This isn’t over. I know how you look at me when you think I can’t see.” The tone is rough, almost predatory, and you’re very thankful for the dark room so he can’t see your scarlet cheeks. “When you look at me like that I’m glad I have my armor — or maybe I wish I didn’t, so you’d see how you make me feel.”

Releasing you he scoops you up to pull you sideways onto his lap, tucking you into his chest. “Can I sleep here, with you?” It’s honestly not possible for someone of his size and with that deep voice to sound timid, but he was pretty close. 

“Yes, please,” you say quietly as you snuggle deeper into his embrace. Holding you to him he rolls you over so you’re on your back with your legs over his thighs and he’s curled around you on his side. He pulls the blankets over you and wraps you up, settling you both and pulling you as close as he can. 

This is bliss. The booming of his huge heart under your cheek, your hands pressed against him, his arms around you as he nuzzles into your hair. 

“Is this still safely inside the loophole?” 

He gently kisses the crown of your head. “I don’t know if I care,” he says in a dreamy sort of way. 

“ _I_ care.” Pressing your lips over his heart draws a ragged gasp from him. You settle your cheek against him again. “It matters to me that you stay whole. Don’t give up.”

“This doesn’t feel like giving up,” comes the quiet response. 

You fall into silence, breathing together, every now and then one of you shifting and trying to get even closer. Gradually you calm and sink into each other completely, warm and safe and not letting go.

After a time sleep finally claims you.


	2. Asterism

Throughout the night you rouse now and then as you usually do, but this time you’re swimming up from sleep and floating just under the surface in the safety of his arms before you’re pulled under again. 

With the blast shields down day and night mean nothing, the perfect blackness uninterrupted on even the brightest afternoon, so when you finally wake you’re not quite sure what time it is. You don’t really care what time it is. The bar runs itself thanks to competent and well paid staff, and they’re used to you appearing whenever you wish and not a moment before. If they really need you they can send you a message, but the dim red light over the door is off, so you know they have things well in hand. 

You don’t want to wake the man currently wrapped around you, but you still can’t resist burying your nose in his skin and inhaling the scent of him. It makes you hungry and thirsty and is still somehow so satisfying. 

“I like the way you wake up,” he says, sleepily, his voice low. “You make the most wonderful sounds, like a content loth-cat. It’s very soothing.” 

“How long have you been awake?” 

“Not long. How’s your head?” His lips are in your hair and you can feel him smiling. 

“My head is just fine, I skipped the high-octane stuff. How’s yours?” 

“Clear. Must have been all that bacta you pushed into me,” he says with a low chuckle. 

“You need the fresher?”

“You go first.” 

You slowly and very regretfully disentangle yourself from the Mando in your bed and pad to the door. You don’t turn on the light until you’re inside and the door’s shut, hoping that maybe he’ll take the hint and keep the lights off for now. 

You use the fresher, quickly wash up and clean your teeth, then set out what he might need. You shut out the light and are relieved to see there’s no illumination slipping under the crack of the door. When you open the door you can feel him standing in the room. 

“I’ll be right back,” It takes you by surprise for a moment, his voice, then you remember that it’s modulated because he can’t walk through your living space in the pitch black the way you can. At least, you hope that’s the reason. He enters the fresher and shuts the door, and you see the light click on and hear the water start running. 

You grab some bottles of water and cold tea from the chiller, along with fruit, sweet bread and some cheese. Tossing them all in a small basket you take it back to bed with you. After all, your table is taken up with at least 50 kilos of metal plate and you had to sit somewhere to eat, right? 

When he emerges a few moments later he makes his way back to the bed and you hear the click-hiss of his helmet releasing. You hadn’t realized how such a soft, small sound could feel so big. You hear him place the helmet on the floor and then his weight is sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. 

“You don’t mind sitting in the dark. Your home is impenetrable. You drink like fish. You know far more about the Resol’nare and the ways of Mano’ade than any other aruetii I’ve met. Who are you?” Thankfully he sounds more intrigued than suspicious. 

“You told me what brought you here, I suppose I should explain how here came to be. First though, would you like some water? Tea? I can make caf, if you’d prefer.” 

“You have caf?” Ah, the hopeful tone of a fellow caf-lover. Excellent. This morning was shaping up. 

You rise and head to your little kitchen, Pulling things out of cupboards and setting up your brewer. You cross the room back to the dresser and grab the boiler, then back to the kitchen to fill it at the sink. 

“How _can_ you do all this in pitch blackness?” 

“Since I was young I’ve had terrible headaches. The light makes them so much worse — I get violently ill if it’s too bright or too loud. I’ve never found anyone who could stop them, just help me make them tolerable.” You fill the filter on the brewer and put the canister back in the cupboard. “I got used to keeping my spaces extremely organized and it’s easy enough, once you know a place, to get around by feel and subtle sound. When this place came up for sale and I had the money for it I jumped on it. Security and the ability to function at least a little bit when it got really bad? It’s everything a girl could ask for.” 

“I was half convinced you could see in the dark,” he chuckled, but there was relief in it. You wish he could see the grin on your face. 

“There’s another trick to it, too.” You pour the water into the brewer and grab two mugs. “I learned long ago that you can always navigate by the stars if you feel lost.” 

You can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s staring up at the pinpricks and constellations marked out in faintly glowing paint on your ceiling. “Clever. Very clever.” 

You pour hot caf into the mugs and head back to the bed. Sitting next to him you place a mug next to his foot so he can pick it up. Trying to hand a full cup of very hot liquid to someone in the dark is a risky proposition at the best of times and you’re not in the mood to patch him up again. 

There’s a companionable silence for a bit as you both gratefully drink and work on being fully awake. 

Between careful sips you ask, “So, you want to hear the rest?” 

“Definitely.” 

“I was young. Twenty one. Headstrong. I had two brain cells. One was brave and the other one stupidly idealistic. I interrupted a group of men trying to harm a young girl and I wasn’t going to let it go. A bounty hunter, a Mando, had been following someone and stepped in.” You take a sip of caf and think about making another pot. “I shouted at him to get the girl out of there and off he went. I didn’t expect him to come back for me, but he did. I guess he either felt sorry for me or he pitied me for my stupidity. Looked after me until I could get around okay on my own again. It wasn’t even two full weeks but, Maker, did that man like to talk.” 

“They raped you?” He sounds shocked and angry and you’re jolted fully awake and aware. 

“No! Oh, no! The kriffing scumbags stabbed me a couple of times.” In a flash the complete and utter ridiculousness of being thankful that you were ‘just stabbed’ that you’re obviously both feeling had you laughing a harsh, almost barking laugh. “What a world, yeah?”

“Do you know who the Mando was?” 

“No idea. Never so much as took off a glove in front of me.” You feel him shift a little uneasily next to you. You know he has a great deal of pride in him, and from the way he’s acting this morning you’d have to guess he doesn’t make himself this vulnerable very often. “Never knew his name, never gave him mine. He was bored out of his mind and it seemed like he was lonely, so we talked.” You set your now empty cup on the floor. He drains the last of his and does the same. 

The silence spins out and you screw up your courage. 

“I’m going to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer it if it’s none of my business. If you do answer it the answer isn’t going to change anything. I just want to know. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds cautious.

“Have you ever taken off your helmet with someone, like you did with me last night and this morning?” 

He took a deep breath, blew it out. “No. Not my armor, either. Not all of it, anyway.” 

“Can you pass me a bottle of water out of the basket, please? It’s to your left. Round bottle.” The moment of normalcy and the reminder that you’re here in the dark breaks the tension a little. 

The water is cold, the bottle wet with condensation. You drink deeply and pass the bottle to him, laying it against his hand so he can take it from you. After he has some he caps it again and then you hear it clink back against the others. 

The feeling that you’ve stepped out of time and space together is back, like when you felt him smile against your skin. Even with the alcohol out of your system you feel your head spinning, heart thumping, hands shaking. Twice now he’s handed himself to you like a present to be unwrapped by your eager fingers, and this time you’re free to accept with a clear conscience. Plus, it would be awfully rude to decline his generosity a second time. 

Standing, you turn and walk forward, your legs framing his thighs. You hear the subtle intake of breath and feel the tension in his muscles against you. “Sit back a bit,” you say quietly. 

He slides back and as soon as he’s settled you slip into his lap, your knees on the bed at his hips. Placing your hands on his shoulders you ask, “Is this okay?” 

“This is very okay,” comes the husky reply as his hands encircle your waist, thumbs across your stomach and fingers splayed loosely across your back. 

Your exploration of him was slow and deliberate. You didn’t want to miss a sound, a twitch, or a single shaky breath. Fingers and palms trace the swell and curve of one muscle into another, from shoulders to biceps, behind to triceps, across again to a powerful chest. When you start to knead his trapezius muscles the sounds that emerge from him take you by surprise. 

“Who sounds like a contented loth-cat now?” Your lightly teasing tone draws no response from him except another low, purring moan of contentment. His thumbs are stroking across your belly lazily, his fingers along your back loose and relaxed. Setting your hand flush to the back of his neck you lean forward, bringing your forehead to his. His hands slide up, coming to rest on your rib cage, and you breathe together for a moment. 

“I missed you when you went away.” It slips quietly out of your mouth, unbidden. You hadn’t meant to make this something it can’t be, but here in the dark the divisions between ‘want’ and ‘can’, ‘should’ and ‘do’ — They’re thinner. Less defined. 

“Yeah?” The undertone of hope and want pulls at you, makes you feel a bit bolder, a bit less worried that he’s not as present in this moment. “I wanted to come back,” he continues in that quiet voice with a hint of pleading under the surface. “Every day — I wanted to come back. I wanted — ”

If you let him finish it becomes real and it’s going to hurt so much more when the world comes rushing back in, so you do the only thing you can think of: You kiss him. 

You ghost your lips over his. He gasps, suddenly unable to finish what he was saying. Again, and then there’s nothing but leading him in exploring you in this new way. Exploring each other. Gentle, fervent kisses, both of you trying to breathe everything you can’t say into each other. 

He slides you closer, so your hips are flush with his and you can feel him, hard, pressing into your heat. His hands sweep down to your hips and grab your dress, his lips moving from yours only long enough to pull the fabric up and over your head. Crushing you to him with an arm across your hips and with a hand buried in your hair he captures your mouth again, having learned your rhythm and now seeking his own. 

He nibbles at your lips, soothes them with little kisses, licks into your mouth hungrily. Tongues tangle and hands ceaselessly search out more of each other, wanting closer, deeper. 

When his lips leave yours they pull a small mewl of disappointment from you which is quickly followed by a whimper of submission as he pulls your head to the side and sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of your neck. Hunter and prey, though the prey may be willing.

A predatory growl rises from him and it short circuits something in you. You can’t think of anything else except the feeling of him possessing you, marking you like a wild animal. 

Your hands scramble at the buttons on his heavy pants, your fingers shaking too much to get anywhere. 

“I want to taste you,” he groans. 

“No, please, later — I need you. Please, I —”

That was all it took for him to release his grip on your hair and tear his pants open, shoving them down and pulling you to him again. His hard length nestles along your soaked panties, then he’s tearing them, first one side and then the other and pulling them off you. Raising yourself up on your knees you reach down for him and tease the head of his twitching cock with your slick folds. His fingers are on your hips in a punishing grip as he seeks out your mouth again. 

Then, bliss. His lips are on yours and you’re sinking onto him, feeling him stretch you and fill you completely. When you think he’s as far as you can take he cants your hips forward and slips past something to go even deeper. 

“Maker, you feel like you were made for me,” he whispers against your mouth. His words seem to resonate right to your core, making you clench around him, drawing a gasp from you both. 

His hand slips down between you, his thumb gliding between you to where you’re joined and settling over your throbbing clit. One strong arm is behind you, pinning you to him. Your arms are thrown around his neck, hanging on to him like he’s a life preserver in a stormy sea. 

He begins stroking that sensitive bud in a slow, steady rhythm, holding you so that he stays buried as deeply within you as he can be. You’re grinding your hips in small circles, aching from how deep he is but the pain is only winding that coiling heat in your belly tighter and tighter. You can’t make any sounds, it seems, but desperate whimpers. Nothing else in the world exists but you and him and this tension within you that he’s expertly bringing to the boiling point. 

“Oh, the sounds you make. Mesh’la,” he growls in your ear. “Gedet’ye, cyar’ika, day’duumir. I won’t let you go.” He nips at your earlobe, then his mouth is on your neck and his teeth are in your flesh as he growls to you in Mando’a, words you can’t understand except that they’re hot and feral in their desire. 

A shudder rockets down your spine. Your legs are burning, your heart racing. Then his hips buck up into you once, twice. A searing flash of pleasure radiates outwards from your center as you come undone around him, a keening wail erupting from you as your fluttering muscles clamp down hard. He releases his grip on you only to move his hands to your hips and help you ride him through your orgasm. The friction drags out the sensations, feeling like a second peak as you flood and grind against him. 

“Ner kar’ta — darasuum,” he groans in your ear and then, “Kiss me, gedet’ye cyar’ika, kiss me.” 

When your lips meet he’s turning you over, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he spills into you as his lips crush yours and you meet his thrusts, almost sobbing from the relief of it. He rolls you again, this time he’s on his back and you’re laying out on top of him as you both come down from the rush. 

Fingers trace lazily along your back and a hum of pure satisfaction rumbles from his chest. “You still haven’t explained how you can almost drink me under the table, you know,” he says as his large hand comes down to cup your bottom and give it a squeeze.

“I always could handle my liquor, but I’ve definitely had a lot more practice since I bought this place. Comes in handy when you have a side job extracting information to sell to mysterious strangers in blue armor.” 

His hand comes down on your bottom with a playful spank. “I hope you don’t think I’m a stranger,” he mumbles as his hand soothes the near painless slap. 

“Haven’t been for a long time.” You trace the lines of his chest slowly, wishing you could see, but knowing that once you turn the light on everything else that’s happening outside these walls has to come rushing back in. 

But — You do have to turn the lights on. You can’t hide from what might be coming and no matter how much you wish it wasn’t the case the fact remains that the man underneath you is a Mandalorian and this might be all you can ever have of him. Delaying the end will only make it hurt more when it’s over. 

A little longer won’t hurt too much, though, right? 

Settling on his chest and sighing you can feel your eyes grow heavy as the sound of his heart lulls you into calmness. 

Then you see it, over the door. The red light, dim and unobtrusive. Three short and one long. 

_‘Trouble. Stay Put.’_


	3. Asterism

There’s no way of knowing how long that light has been blinking. The entire place could be gone around you and you’d have no way of knowing. You weren’t exaggerating when you said this room was a fortress. The blast walls are 30 cm thick and you wouldn’t hear it if a bomb went off out there. 

Three short, one long. Over and over. 

“What is it?” Even now the soldier in him is always on guard. He felt the change in you instantly and now he’s on alert, too. 

“I don’t know yet. Get your armor on.” 

Slithering off him you wait until you hear his helmet click on before you turn on the lamp. Blushing, shy for no real reason, you pull clothes out of the dresser. As you walk past him to the fresher he reaches out to stop you, hand around your arm.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” 

“You didn’t drag me anywhere or into anything. I volunteered, remember?” Smiling at him you disentangle yourself. There’s no time for regrets. Not now. “It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to get presentable. I’ll be right back.” 

After a quick run through the sonic you’re donning a high necked shirt to cover the bite marks on your neck, a warm glow spreading through you at the sight of them, but you don’t linger. Exiting the fresher, you note the light over the door has stopped blinking.

“It stopped about a minute ago.” He’s standing there naked as the day he was born but for his helmet and, Maker, he is beautiful. “Keep looking at me like that and I’m taking you back to bed,” he growls at you. 

You bite your lip and grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop ogling you,” you say with an exaggerated sigh, earning you a pinch on the rear from him as he passes. The fresher door closes, leaving you to marvel over the contradiction of a man who was absolutely no virgin, but at the same time had never been kissed until today. A man who definitely wanted to take you back to bed, one you don’t think you’re ever going to want to turn away, and you’ll know him more intimately than any other person in the galaxy — yet you’ll never know his name or see his face. 

Re-powering the chrono, you see it’s mid-afternoon. The cantina’s been open for a few hours already, time enough for someone to get smashed and start smashing. If it was just that, though, your staff wouldn’t have told you to stay put. They knew your rooms were on lockdown, and them telling you to stay that way made you nervous. Whatever it was you knew it would be far more messy than a drunken brawl. 

The Mandalorian emerges from the fresher and goes to the table to put on his armor, so you sit to watch him. It’s an efficient process, over with in a few moments. When he’s done he turns to you and you stand up, motioning to the table. “Help me move this over against the wall.”

Once the table is out of the way you fold back the rug and lift one of the floorboards, releasing a catch. Pulling up on the small lip that’s there, you lift a section of floor and swing it away, revealing a cellar and a ladder.

“This will only open if the blast doors are shut. I’m going to find out what happened and then I’ll be right back.” You nod your head towards the ladder, but he hesitates.

“You want me to hide in a hole while you go see what the trouble is?” His tone is indignant.

“For all you and I know at the moment it was the local tax authority here to object to my accounting, an ex-lover with a grudge, or it could be imps looking for you. If it’s imps I’d rather not make it easier for them to find you here.” You fix your gaze on his visor and throw him a smile. “My house, my rules. Get in the hole, Mando.” 

“Hmmm,” he hums with amusement. “You’re very bossy.”

“Yes, now get in the kriffing cellar.” you say with an air of finality.

He sighs a long-suffering sigh, starts down the ladder to the dimly lit space and you shut him in, roll the carpet back and prepare to go see what the problem is. 

***

Walking into the bar from the back everything appears orderly enough. Some early customers are sitting around and Kresas is behind the bar. Kres gives you a _look_ and inclines his head towards a table in the corner. 

Ah, so that’s what the fuss is about. Jedi. You don’t see much of them this far out. Not these days. There’s two of them, dun-coloured robes a dead giveaway, and there’s no mistaking them for anything else once you get to the lightsabers hanging from their belts. 

_A Mandalorian and two Jedi walk into a bar…_

Well, nothing for it but to see what they want. You head over to the table, trying to keep the anxiety at bay. A headache is blooming behind your eyes, as it always does when you’re feeling stressed. “I’m the owner, anything I can get for you two?” 

The taller of the two, a Cathar, regards you for a moment and then answers slowly, “We’re looking for a Mandalorian. A bounty hunter. We know one of his tribe came here last night and we want to speak to him.” 

“He was injured. I patched him up and he was gone.” Not exactly a lie. The Mando who walked through your door was not the same man you slept curled up with in your bed. 

The other, a human, sat straight and placed his hands on the table. “Where is he now?” 

“I can’t tell you that.” A sliver of bright agony slices through your head, right behind your eyes. 

“Can’t or won’t?” The Cathar makes a subtle movement with his hand as another flash of pain rips through your skull. His eyes grow wide and he looks as if he’s about to vomit.

“That should teach you not to poke your nose where it’s unwelcome,” you spit. “Don’t do it again.” The only advantage to the headaches you experience is that force-sensitives and empaths tend to keep the hell out once they’ve had a taste of what’s hiding in there. 

“We just want to talk, that’s all —" 

"I have no information for you and I won’t have anyone in my place who’d violate someone so casually. Get out.” Your voice is icy, and not just from the pain. How dare he try something so disgusting? The only thing your late husband had been right about was the Jedi being a collection of freakishly celibate, child-stealing, mind-raping scum. 

“We’re not here to cause trouble, we just —" 

You cut the human one off. "Your friend here has already demonstrated that you’re very much here to cause trouble.” Heading over to the bar you reach under the counter and unclip the slug thrower you keep there. 

It’s a nasty, brutish weapon, double barreled and intended for use with cartridges loaded with dozens of small metal pellets. The barrels have been sawn short, making it an excellent weapon for both security and abruptly decisive crowd control.

It’s also very good for making Jedi want to be anywhere but near the person holding it. Cradling it against your elbow you break it open and load two cartridges as you walk back to the Jedis’ table. Snapping it shut with a satisfyingly loud ‘snick’ you simply stand there holding the weapon easily and wait for their force-addled brains to catch up with reality as the rest of the patrons become very interested in anything happening on the other side of the bar. 

The Cathar has gathered himself enough to realize there’s no further discussion to be had here. He rises and motions to the human, who immediately follows. At the door the Cathar turns back as if to say something and you raise the thrower, finger on the trigger. He flinches and drags his smaller friend out into the afternoon sunlight. 

Blowing out a breath you head back to the bar to grab the box of cartridges you keep there.

“Kres,” you say quietly, “Are your brothers still available for the occasional bit of security work?” 

The Zabrak nods. “They can be here in an hour if you want?” 

“Yeah get them in here for the next week or so. Tell them to keep their schedules clear. Pay them the usual, and keep them sober enough to be sensible.” 

“Got it. You in trouble?” His tone is one of mild concern, which means he really must be worried. 

“Not at the moment, Kres.” You lay your hand on his arm and give it a friendly squeeze. “I think it might be looking for me, though. So let’s just be prepared, okay?” 

“Okay, Boss.” 

***

Back in your quarters you set the thrower and the box on the table, shut the blast shield, and pop open the hatch. 

“Hey,” he says as he comes up the ladder. “What’s wrong? You look — what is it?" 

"I’m okay, just a bit of a headache, but Jedi are looking for your beroya and they know you came here last night.” The pain in your head is dissipating, amazingly early for these kinds of episodes, but the accompanying dizziness is taking a bit longer. He reaches out to steady you then leads you over to sit on the couch, sinking down beside you. 

“If they’re looking for D— for our beroya then I have to find him first. I need to warn him.” He props his elbows on his knees and rests his helmet in his hands. “And if those Jetiise know I came here then others do, as well. It’s not safe here.” 

So that’s it. He’s leaving. 

Not even two hours ago you were giving yourself a pep talk about how this can’t last and you can’t get too deep and now it feels like you can barely breathe because he’s going just like you knew he would have to.

Still, it hurts like fire in your chest. You want to beg him not to go, like some stupid girl in love or a desperate woman who can’t live without him — but you’re neither of those things, so you hold your tongue. It wouldn’t matter anyway. One of his own needs him, so there’s nothing for it but letting him go without a fuss and doing your best to make sure you’ve done all you can to help him prepare for what lies ahead. He’s lost too much already not to save the few left in his tribe from danger heading their way, despite the risk. 

Sighing, you rise and go to your little linen closet. Opening the door you start pulling out the towels and sheets and set them aside. Then out come the shelves. You pop open the side panel and reach into the hidden space in the wall, retrieving a small bag, then reach in again to pull out a large, locked metal box. 

Returning to the couch you sit beside him. His head is still in his hands and you’re pretty sure he’s a million miles away under the mask. Touching his arm gently you gain his attention. 

“Here,” you say, handing him the bag, trying to keep your voice even and light. “It’s all I have on hand without leaving. About eight thousand credits. Imperial, Republic and some Calamari Flan. Should be enough to buy you fuel or passage, and supplies, to reach your beroya.” He’s staring at the bag in his hands, not moving. 

_…and hopefully enough to bring you back to me again._

You set the box on your lap and open the combination lock. Inside are several slug throwers and some boxes of ammunition. You pull out the one you know could probably stop a mudhorn along with the box of “blooming” slugs that fold apart on impact, causing catastrophic damage to the target. You don’t need special bullets to bring down a Jedi. Their own hubris and a regular slug will do that, but if he’s sure that it’s not just Jedi hunting him you want to give him a fighting chance against whatever might come his way. 

As you move to hand him the thrower and slugs he sets aside the bag to take them from you. He’s staring down at them, not speaking, barely moving. 

“Keep back a few slugs so you can have more made if you need.” You pull one out of the box and show him the tip, notched with an ‘x’. “These will split when they hit a target, hard or soft. They do a lot of damage, so don’t shoot anything you’re not looking to kill. You can’t hit someone with one of these and expect to have a chat with them after.” Your hand is shaking slightly when you slide the slug back with its siblings and you curse yourself for letting your feelings get the best of you. Rising again you return to the closet and put the box away in the hidden compartment and return the shelves and linens to their proper places. 

Needing to impose order, to feel like you have some control, you tidy up around the bed, picking up the basket with your forgotten breakfast along with the bottles, tumblers and cups. Setting it on the counter in your little kitchen there’s a moment where the world swims as tears gather, but you blink them away and dry your eyes on a dishtowel, hoping he doesn’t see. The last thing he needs is a weeping woman on his hands. What you need to give him is strength. Resolve. Unwavering support. You need to be a reflection of the things in himself that are weighing on him most, but are also the foundations of who he is both as a man and a Mando. 

_Compose yourself and give him what he needs. He’s lost enough in the last few weeks to break anyone, and if you can help him stay whole there’s a chance he’ll come back to you. You’ll have the luxury of falling apart, but only after he’s gone._

When you turn around you see he’s still staring at the thrower he’s holding. Sitting back down with him you gently take it and set it aside, then take his hands in yours. 

"When do you need to leave?" 

"I’ll leave tomorrow.” He pulls his hands away and removes his gloves, then weaves his fingers with yours. “It might take a week, maybe two. Will you be safe here?" 

“Kres’ brothers are going to stay for a bit. Kres will, too. I’ll be well looked after.”

“They sleep here?” Modulators can disguise a lot of emotional weather but you know a momentary flash of jealousy when you hear one, modified or not. 

“No, and not with me if that’s what you’re worried about,” you grin cheekily. 

“I didn’t — Ah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. That was —”

“It’s okay.” You lean your cheek against his pauldron. “Kres has his own rooms across the hall, they’ll sleep there in shifts. Someone’s always up and about, keeping watch. We’ve been through this kind of thing before.” 

“You need guards often?” He tilts his helmet, and you can feel his gaze on you through the visor.

“You know what it’s like around here. Bounty hunters, imps, the Republic, rebellions cropping up here and there. Someone is always looking for power, land, flesh, or money and there aren’t a lot of authorities around to stop them. Everything out here went to bantha shit after the war started, and it’s never gotten better.” Sitting up, you shrug, “When things kick off I like to know I can keep this place together. We’ve hidden the children in here more than once when the fighting began. Things have been quiet since you first started coming around, but that never lasts out this far.”

“Peace is a rare commodity, only for the rich and those who grab power at the expense of others.” He sounds so very bitter, not that you can blame him for it. You know enough history to understand that genocide isn’t a one-and-done deal. The transgenerational trauma will echo for centuries, and the healing can’t even begin to start until they’re no longer being hunted just for existing. 

“Why do you think the Jedi are looking for your beroya?”

“The child he has with him. The one he saved from the imps? It’s a sorcerer like the Jedi. It has power. Healing by touch, moving objects — I think they want it the way the imps want it.” He shook his head. “Our Alor thinks the child should be with them, and usually I’d consider her wise but not in this. The Jedi will use the child for their own ends, to gain power, not caring at all about the child’s right to choose a normal life.” 

“You’re not wrong. I don’t trust them. They violate people’s minds, manipulating them like puppets. It’s abhorrent.” You gently withdraw your hands and sit up. “I’ll give you another slug thrower and some ammunition for your beroya.”

You get up and head into your kitchen. “You haven’t had anything but caf all day and neither have I. How about I make us something to eat?”

“Can I help?” 

“Just relax. Make yourself at home. There’s a data pad over on the dresser if you want, or have a shower, take a nap. Just do whatever you’d normally do if you had free time.” You turn and busy yourself with tidying and pulling things out of the chiller. You can hear him taking his armor off and then he’s coming up behind you, sliding his arms around you and you can’t help but melt against him. You’ve wanted this for so long, his touch, and there’s so little time. 

“I’m going to have a shower. I won’t be long.” A hum of contentment rumbled through him and his arms tightened about you for a moment before he reluctantly let go. 

You busy yourself making some skewered, spiced meat that you place in the small oven, then you prepare some greens and root vegetables. By the time he’s out of the shower dinner is halfway done and you’re slicing some fruit for after the meal, mixing it with some sweet liqueur and setting it in the chiller. 

He’s wearing only his canvas pants and his helmet. Very distracting. He heads to the table and takes a few cloths from his belt pouches to clean his armor. He carefully dusts each piece, then goes to the fresher to rinse them and wipes the painted metal gently with the damp material. Satisfied with his work he returns to you in the kitchen, lounging against the counter and watching you finish the last of the preparations. . 

“I’d like to meet your bodyguards before I go.” He sounds almost sheepish and it tugs at your heart. He’s as on edge over all of this as you are. “I don’t doubt your judgment. I’m just —” Hands twist against each other as he blows out a breath. “I’m worried about leaving you here. I just need to know you’re going to be safe.” Even though he knows you can’t see his face he’s still instinctively lowering his head to look at his hands. 

“We can go have a drink with them after dinner, if you like. They’ll be settled in by then and Kresas can join us.” Stepping forward into his arms you lay your head and hands on his chest. There’s a quick intake of breath, a sound of surprise, and then he’s wrapping his arms around you. “Your dinner is almost ready. I’ll shower while you eat, and while I’m eating we can talk a little more.”

“It smells wonderful.” 

“Thank you,” you say, planting a kiss on his chest. “Now sit. I’ll bring over your tray.” You smile up at his visor. “You need to keep up your strength.” Pinching his bottom, for a change, you’re rewarded with a shocked gasp followed by a deep laugh. 

***

After settling him with his meal you head for the fresher. Another long, luxurious shower has you thinking you could get used to this. You let yourself daydream for a bit, until the water cools and you think he’s had enough time to finish his dinner. You slip a simple dress over your head, wanting to be comfortable, and still find yourself flushing at the marks on your neck. You think about covering them up, then realize you want him to see. Perversely, you want everyone to see that this Mando has marked you with his teeth. That he’s yours in a way that no one else could be because he’s marked you as his in this way. 

Despite having just showered you stop to splash some cold water on your face before you knock on the door, both to cover your sudden blush and to distract from the sweet, slick ache between your legs. 

You hear him put his helmet back on and call out, “It’s okay, come on out.” 

He’s lounging on the bed, propped up on an elbow. The lamp is lit and the overhead off, the room looking cozy in the soft glow. His tray is back in the kitchen and he’s moved yours over to the bed. “Come here,” he says in that deep voice as he lifts the tray up. “Lay down with your back to me.” 

You sit on the bed and duck under the tray, sliding back until you’re molded to him. He sets the tray down in front of you and then breaks off a small piece of bread and uses it to enfold a bite of meat before bringing it to your mouth. He slides it past your lips, his fingertips barely brushing the plush flesh. Slowly he breaks off bits of food, feeding you gently with his fingers. It’s sweet and it’s loving and it’s probably the most intimate thing you’ve ever experienced. 

“I thought a lot about you while I was gone. Maybe too much.” He sighs and feeds you a bit of bread and greens, then wipes his fingers on the napkin and gently brushes your cheek. “Too much of my time was wasted on trying to feel the way I thought I was supposed to feel, trying to want the things I think I’m supposed to want. When everything fell apart and I couldn’t get back here — it made me realize how much I relied on you — that I needed the relief of talking with you.”

You watch as he deftly breaks off a bite of meat for you. You capture his hand and take it from him with your lips, kissing his fingertips. 

“When I had nowhere to go and I didn’t know how bad I was hurt — all I wanted was to see you again. Tell you everything I didn’t tell you before. I don’t know anymore why I spent so much time trying to talk myself out of it.”

When your meal is done he leans over you to set the tray on the floor. He leans back on his elbow again, fingers playing over you like he’s memorizing the way you fit together. 

“I dream about you, you know,” he continues. “All the time. Not just — not just sex. When I wake up it always feels so impossible but right now I can’t remember why.“

He brushes the hair from your neck and finally sees the faint bruises and teeth marks he left behind. His fingertips trace them and he asks, “I hurt you?” His voice is quiet, almost lost through the com. 

"Yes, and I liked it.” The answer comes flying out of your mouth before you have time to think. He’s got your head spinning again and he’s barely touching you. Just the way he’s talking to you, sliding his hands over you, it has your mind in the clouds, like you’ve had a low dose of spice. “I want more —”

He cuts you off with a low growl as his hand gently encircles your neck. No pressure, just spanning the column of your throat, fingers on your pounding pulse. 

You _should_ feel vulnerable. Scared, perhaps. Instead, every ounce of tension leaves you. You feel absolutely safe in submission and more turned on than you thought possible. From the ragged breathing and the hard, hot length that’s pressed against you it would seem to be having the same effect on him. 

“We are going for that drink,” he rumbles into your ear. “One drink. When I’m satisfied that you’ll be looked after properly we’re coming back here.”

“Yes, please,” you whisper. 

“One last thing.” He sits up and turns off the chrono and the lamp. You hear his helmet release and then his hand slides up your arm, to your neck, up to cup your cheek. Lips seek and find yours in a sweet, soft kiss. “I’m sorry I have to go so soon. I promise I’m coming back.” He kisses you again, slow and tender. “I’m always going to come back." 


	4. Asterism

The bar is full enough, as it usually is in the evenings. Your place was popular long before you owned it and you changed little, not wanting to mess with a good thing. People came here to relax, talk with their friends, gamble a bit, drink a bit, and mind their own damn business. 

Until, that is, you walk out of the back hallway with a massive Mando at your side. The room didn’t exactly go silent, and it wasn’t as though everyone was staring. Things just got a bit quieter, then a bit louder than usual, and there were more subtly curious glances thrown your way than you’d normally attract. 

He did make for an impressive sight in his heavy armor. Tall, well built, and moving with a predator’s grace it was hard to ignore his presence. Spotting the boys at their table, playing cards, you head in their direction. 

Arriving at the table your turn to your Mando, “These are the boys who’re going to be staying until the factions lose interest.” Pointing to each in turn, “The twins, Dukuk and Dradru — and the baby of the family, Kabodo.” This last elicits a gruff, modulated chuckle. Kabodo, despite being the youngest, was the largest of the four. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted, I’m just going to give Kres a hand and I’ll be back with drinks." 

You hit the bar and grab an apron, tying it on and stuffing a float in the pockets. Kresas looks up from the keg he’s swapping out. "It’s about time.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Time for what, exactly?”

“You and the blue guy. You two have been circling each other for the better part of a cycle and you haven’t had an overnight guest since he started coming around every couple of days.” The Zabrak tightened the connector and manhandled the full keg into its spot under the counter. “And? You’ve been miserable since he stopped coming around. Even with all the trouble you’re happy again." 

“That obvious? Hmmm.” You grab the tray of drinks off the bar. “What table?” 

“I like him. Table eight.” 

***

After delivering the rounds waiting to go to tables you head back to the bar to pull a few for the guys. Stuffing the credits from your apron back into the till you turn to Kres, “Let’s go have a drink.” 

Things seem to be going well enough at the table. You serve out the drinks and take your seat in time to hear Dukuk say, “…and if they get that far we’ll lock down.” The Mandalorian is nodding, looking at the hasty sketch of the cantina’s floor plan. “We have two weapons caches outside, both secure. Inside we stay armed, and so does she.” 

Kres indicates an ‘x’ drawn in the bar area, “Past this point we can provide full cover, so if anything starts in here we can get her to safety immediately.”

The Mando takes a sip of his drink through the straw you slipped him and considers the drawing. “Imps have taken to burning out their targets.” 

Dradru stabs a finger at the paper on the table, "We have a safe exit point here, accessible through the cellars. Haven’t had to use it in a while, so we checked it out when we arrived. Doors are good and the tunnel’s clear.”

Kabodo gets up from his seat. “Come with me and I’ll show where it comes out and how to get back in that way. Safer if you’re not coming in through the front door." 

The Mando at your side nods but before he rises he turns to you and cups your face with a gloved hand. His helm meets your forehead as his thumb strokes your cheek. 

"I’ll be right back, cyar'ika." 

You nod, lifting your hand to his for a moment, and then he’s rising to follow Kabodo down the back hallway. You really do hate to see him go but, Maker, is it ever a treat to watch him walk away. 

“He’s nervous about leaving you.” Dukuk takes a sip of his drink and raises an eyebrow. “Not that I can blame him. Imps and Jedi on his tail and he decides to come here?" 

"Give him a break,” teases Dradru. “He’s in love.”

“I wouldn’t go that far just yet, guys. It’s been one day.” You’re blushing and it’s got them laughing.

“It’s been almost a cycle, and you don’t see the way he watches you.” Kresas says in his typical matter-of-fact fashion. “Like I said — it’s about time.”

“Well, I’m glad at least some of you approve,” you quip, shooting a sharp look at Dukuk. “I’ve known the four of you since Kabodo was still in primary school and all of you treat me like I’m your little sister.” 

Their mother had been a barmaid here when you bought the place. She had four young children, her husband had been injured, and the previous owner requested that her continued employment be part of the sale contract. You let her bring the boys to the cantina to keep them out of trouble, helped her pay for schooling, and watched them grow into men. Their father was long since gone, and when Rusrae had left the cantina to open a dressmaker’s shop the two of you had remained close, relying on each other like sisters through the years. 

“Well, you are very short.” Dradru leans over and pats you on the head as you swat at his hand, laughing. 

You catch a flash of blue and see your Mando and Kabodo at the back hall entrance. They clasp forearms and Kabodo comes back to the table. A helmet tilts at you then back in the direction of the hall as he leans easily against the corner of the wall. 

“That’s my cue. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Leave some drinks for the customers, yeah?” You slide out of your seat to a chorus of ‘goodnight’ from the boys.

When you reach him he stands straight and takes your hand, leading you back to your door. He releases you as you step in front of him to enter the code but the moment the door is open you’re being lifted and carried inside. He shuts the door, walks to the panel in the wall and then closes the blast shields. 

Sitting you on the table he steps between your thighs and starts to remove his gear, laying the pieces around you. He steps back for just a moment to remove his cuisses and the rest of his lower plate, and when he returns you can feel the heat of him through his under armor. 

A hand comes up to toy with the neckline of your dress and the other snakes behind you, pulling you to the edge of the table as he moves forward, your hips meeting. 

“I’m going to leave the light on. I want to see you.” Through the modulator his tone is harsher, more commanding. His hands leave you for a moment as he removes his top layer, and then they’re back again.

The fingers toying with the front of your dress skim down, grazing over your breast, a thumb gliding over a taut nipple and teasing it through the fabric. Your back arches, your body seeking more. You bring your hands up to his chest and are immediately met with a harsh slap to your thigh, instantly soothed with a large warm palm. 

“No. Hands on the table. I want to play, and you’re going to let me.” His visor tilts to the side as he searches your face. You try to bite your lip to stop the wicked little grin pulling at the corners of your mouth, but you’re entirely unsuccessful. You place your hands, palm down, on the table beside your legs and stare up at him, eyes alight and cheeks pink. 

“Perfect,” he sighs. 

His hands return to their slow plundering. A thumb and forefinger pull gently at a sensitive bud, pinching ever so lightly for just a moment, and then his hands are trailing down to run barely-there fingers along your thighs. 

Everything about him is complete, steady control. The only outward sign of his excitement is the sheen of sweat on his skin and the huge bulge at the fly of his trousers. Everywhere he touches that makes you gasp he seems to memorize, coming back to it after a while to see what new sounds he can draw from you. 

You’re trembling now and then, breath hitching. He traces his fingertips down the valley between your breasts and steps back from you. Your quiet ‘oh’ of disappointment earns a stiff grip on your inner thigh, his helmet meeting your forehead as he quietly growls, “Behave!” He releases you almost immediately and strokes the marks left behind. 

You’d like to suppress the shudder of pleasure and the wide, eager grin that spreads across your face, but there’s no helping it. He’s got you right where he wants you. Bending down, he removes a knife from his boot. When he rises he’s keeping his visor trained on your face, gauging your reaction. Your grin manages to widen and you lick your lips, staring at the knife and then into the blackness where you know his eyes must be. 

He grabs the fabric at your waist and in one quick motion he uses the blade to cut open the front of your dress. He reverses his hold on the blade, grasps the fabric again and cuts it down to the hem. Using the tip of the knife he flicks the material off you, first one side and then the other. His breath hitches, just once, as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, panting, and spread open for him on the table. 

He sheaths his knife, reaching for you as he rises. Now that he has you exposed he starts over again from the beginning, maddeningly slow and patient. He teases your nipples, brushes your inner thighs, cups your breasts, slides a finger across your cheek. Over and over his hands roam everywhere but where you’re hot and aching and wanting him most. 

Just when you think you’re going to shake apart from want he slides one hand up your thigh and his thumb gently brushes along your slit. You let out a sound that’s half sob, moan of pleasure. As the pad of his thick digit glides up your soaked entrance to the top of your cleft it catches the hood of your throbbing, aching clit where it pokes out from between your swollen, sensitive lips. Your whole cunt clenches from the sensation and he sucks in a breath. 

Slowly he eases his hands away, beginning to massage the tension out of your legs, reaching up to palm your tits and stroke your belly. His fingers brush your lips, tangle for a moment in your hair, knuckles ghost across your cheek. He gradually calms you, bringing you down from the precipice, humming encouragement and shushing you gently. When you’re relaxed, his fingers return to your core. 

Again and again he teases at your entrance, lightly running a finger over your clit where it peeks out, waiting for that tell-tale tightening or the tremble in your legs telling him to stop. Gradually you find yourself trying to relax through it, to not give in and let the sensations build, to keep his fantastic hands on you _there_ just a little longer. When he manages five slow, perfect swirls around the sensitive tip without you tightening he exhales roughly, the sound turning to static at the end through the com. He pauses, leaving his finger just sitting there against you with the barest pressure for a moment. His finger drawing away from you makes your clit jump, desperate for more sensation, more of him against you. 

He straightens and stares down at you laying back on the table. You’re a panting, shaking mess. Sweat-slick skin glows in the lamplight, flush and heaving and wanting _him_ and nothing else in the galaxy. He shucks off his boots and undoes his fly, stepping out of his pants and kicking them aside. His cock springs free, red, hard, twitching and leaking. 

He lines up the huge head with your desperate pussy. You’re so far beyond wet at this point that you’re sitting in a puddle of your own slick from the teasing he’s subjected you to. He lays one hand against your mound, the base of his palm just over your clit. Pressing down, he starts a slow slide into you, exhaling the whole time. The way he’s holding you down drags his shaft along that bundle of nerves, but the pressure on the base of your clit means the sensation is dulled enough that it won’t drive you over the edge. Yet. 

When he’s buried all the way inside you he stops for a moment, breathing in tune with you, and you can feel the tension in him. 

That’s when it hits you. Dominance for him isn’t about violence or brute strength. It’s about control. Quiet, all encompassing control. It’s about self-control, too. Oh, yes, there will be pain, an exquisite amount from the way things seem to be progressing, but it won’t be about the pain itself but the endurance of it. Building on it, letting it push you higher, deeper, farther. 

If you weren’t madly in love with him already this would have been the moment for you. As it is you think your heart’s stuttering for a moment from the enormity of finding someone who’s self control was part of the initial attraction and who also knew very well how to use that to bring untold pleasure behind closed doors when the occasion called for it.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the slow drag of his cock pulling out of you. When it’s just the head inside you he pauses once more for a breath and then thrusts in again, slow and easy. You throw your head back and try to relax into it, his rhythm staying steady and sure and keeping you grounded enough to let the pleasure flow through you, enough to let you push past the urge to give in to the tightening that is kept, just barely, over the horizon. 

He drags it out as long as he can, his control astounding. His thighs are like steel and you can feel him tremble now and then. A sudden sharp flutter of your muscles has him still in less than a heartbeat. He reaches up and strokes your cheek, murmuring, “Shhh, shhhh. It’s okay.” 

He turns his hand and places his thumb over your clit again, starts stroking gentle swoops across it in time with his thrusts, whispering encouragement to you. 

“That’s it, just relax and let it build. You’ve been so good.” 

The tension in your belly ratchets up and up, seemingly without end. Desperate whimpers are all the sounds you can make. You can feel your cunt clench so hard it hurts. You think your heart is going to stop. Your fingernails are digging into the wood of the table, raising splinters. 

“Look at me,” he says in a deep growl. Somehow, you focus your eyes on his visor. “Perfect,” he purrs and that’s when everything snaps like a high tension wire and you’re coming harder than you ever have from somewhere so deep it feels like it’s tearing you. You can’t make a sound, you can barely get a breath. He’s grunting and swearing and thrusting into you in time with your contractions, then suddenly you’re being carried, still impaled on him, to the bed. He turns and sits, slams off the chrono, shuts off the lamp and rips off his helmet. 

He rolls onto his back, tucks your head into his shoulder and relentlessly pounds up into you, cursing in Mando’a and praising you in basic. His hips stutter and he holds you to him so tightly you can’t breathe as he grinds into you, his twitching cock pumping its hot load in you as deep as he can go. 

His shudders slow and his hold loosens. Lips find lips and you’re kissing hungrily, deeply. In between you’re whispering to each other, sweet words and soft words that can’t be left unsaid. 

“You’re so good to me,” you breathe into his mouth before tongues tangle and you lose yourself in him again. 

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he whispered as he nibbled on your lip before kissing you over and over. 

“What?”

“Falling in love,” and he’s diving into you again, exploring and teasing. 

Gradually you both quiet, dozing in each other’s arms, drifting together in the space between waking and sleep. 

An hour or so later you start feeling a bit less like an overcooked but happy noodle, and you get up to grab some water from the chiller. Taking two bottles you walk back to the bed and crawl back in. You both drink deeply, and when you’ve had your fill he waits for you to cap your bottle and then kisses you. 

“How about we have some of that fruit and talk a bit?” His voice is husky and warm and you’d do anything he asked as long as he kept talking to you like that. 

“Sure. I’ll be right back.” You get up and get the bowl from the chiller, leaving the lid on the counter. Back in bed you feed each other bits of liquor soaked fruit. 

“What did you want to talk about?” You lick syrup off a finger.

“What do you know about the Riduurok?”


	5. Asterism

You can’t breathe. 

There is nothing left in the galaxy but panic and the pounding of your struggling heart as your cells starve for oxygen. Air seems like a vague memory even as your lungs are screaming for it. Your throat won’t obey your commands, your chest is burning, your mind a cacophony of screeching internal alarms.

 _Oh, Maker, please don’t let it end this way. Not here. Not now. Not like **this**_. 

As your vision starts to spark around the edges a hand grips your shoulder hard enough that you feel the bones creak and you hear a whooshing sound as something large splits the air. You don’t even have time for your panicked brain to react before whatever it is has made solid contact with the center of your back, knocking you forward hard enough to have sent you flying if you hadn’t also been caught immediately. 

Thankfully, the piece of fruit lodged in your windpipe comes loose and goes sailing across the room to land with a wet slap on the floor near the kitchen. Air rushes into your lungs, everything locks up again for one more terrifying moment, and then you’re coughing and sputtering as he rubs your back and tries not to laugh. When you’re finally able to draw a full breath without coughing he starts laughing in earnest. 

“I think I should start over.” He pauses for a second to calm a bout of chuckling. “First, are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” it comes out as a harsh croak, your throat still spasming and raw. 

“Okay.” He continues rubbing your back slowly, “What I was trying to say is that my cousin, they’re living with another Covert, they said the Ridurrok not long ago and next month there’s a big party. If you know anything about Mando parties, well – Do you want to go?” 

“You’re asking me on a date? To your cousin’s wedding reception?” Now it’s your turn to chuckle, only it comes out sounding more like a bark. You reach down carefully and find a bottle of water by the bed.

“Yeah, I’m asking you on a date. To one of the best parties you’ll ever go to. You in?” He’s trying to play it cool, but you don’t miss the boyish hopefulness in his words. 

“Yeah I’m in, of course!” You take a few swallows from your bottle and clear your throat. “What the hell does an aruetii wear to a Mando party, anyway?” 

“Hopefully something that shows off your ass,” he deadpans, making you laugh again. 

“Right. Get your bucket back on for a minute. I need to turn on the light.”

When he’s covered again you turn on the lamp, passing through the kitchen and grabbing a cloth, then heading over to the mess on the floor before one of you slips in it and breaks an ankle. 

He gets up off the bed and heads over to the table, picking up his gear and neatening it, then wiping the table top while you try not to blush and fail miserably. He picks up what you’d been wearing from where it had fallen to the floor and turns to you. 

“Sorry about your dress.” He’s trying to sound contrite but frankly you’re not having to work hard to see through it when his cock is right there, twitching lazily. 

“If you’re going to lie to me about something like that you shouldn’t try to do it when you’re naked,” you tease. 

Carefully he folds the fabric in his hands and sets it on the table, then walks to you. He slips an arm around your waist and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind your ear as your hands come up to rest on his chest. 

“I am sorry. Doesn’t mean I won’t want to do it again.” He rubs your back slowly, finding any little spot of tension and soothing it with his warm fingers. “Let’s get cleaned up and go back to bed. We don’t have a lot of time left and —” He stops and sighs heavily. “An ageless universe and we never have enough of the one thing that won’t run out.” His voice is heavy with more than just post coital let-down. Disappointment, despair – These are colouring his view in equal measures. The weight of who he is and what he has to do to be that man and Mando are weighing on him now that he actually has to make the choice again. 

_Tread carefully. There is no safe middle ground between a man and his faith. Certainly not this man and his chosen path, at any rate. Give him what he needs most – what he needs but can’t ask for._

“We have more than just now.” You plant a kiss on his chest and then draw his helm forward with a hand on the back of his neck. Forehead to forehead you look into his visor. “You just have a job to do, first, Mando. When it’s done you’ll come back and I’ll be here, waiting to show you how much I missed you.” 

Giving his neck a gentle squeeze you lean back a bit and he straightens. “Come with me,” you say, softly. “Let me spoil you a little before you have to go.” Taking his hand you lead him into the fresher and bid him to sit on the bench across from the tub. When he’s seated and you’ve gathered towels together and laid them beside him you turn on the water, filling the tub and allowing the room to warm.

When the bath is ready you turn to him, smiling. “Get in. I’ll turn out the light.” 

He slides into the water with a hiss and a sigh and you flick off the overheads. He removes his helmet and you can hear him set it next to the tub. Kneeling down next to him you pick up a cloth and begin to wash him. At first there’s tension in him, as if he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“Relax,” you whisper to him. “Just let me take care of you.” He’s touch starved, but certainly not touch averse. He sinks a bit further into the water and lets himself go, allowing you to move him about, washing and massaging him from head to toe. 

The only sounds are the lapping, dripping water and his soft sighs and hums of pleasure. When you’re finished and wringing out the cloth he reaches out for you. Warm, wet hands glide up your arms to your shoulders. He cups your face in his palms, pulling you in for a kiss. One becomes two, and then three, and then they’re melting together. His breath hitches, and he breaks the kiss to breathe with you a moment. He’s trembling slightly, breathing a bit erratic, like he’s on the edge of something that he doesn’t know how to handle. 

“Let’s get you rinsed off and in bed. You need rest.” You hand him his bucket and once you hear it secured you help him out of the tub, smiling gently. You know he can see you so you keep your worry for him from your face. You pull the plug in the tub, lead him to the shower and climb in with him. As you rinse him you wash yourself, your movements slow and liquid, keeping him relaxed and calm. Once you’re both squeaky clean you shut off the water and then lead him out to wrap him in a large towel sitting him down on the bench again while you wipe the water from his skin. 

When you’re both dry you lead him back to the bed. He sits and pulls off his helmet again once it’s dark, tucking it beside the bed on the floor and then with surprising accuracy he reaches for you and pulls you down onto his lap. Just like last night he rolls you over so your legs are over his and he’s curled around you. When he pulls the blankets around you his hands start to roam, sweetly and softly, tracing curves and hollows as if in reverence. 

Your own hands are not shy in their explorations. You want to memorize how it feels to be beside him, how his muscles flow and move under your fingers, the map of scars that tell of being a hard man leading a hard life.

You can feel him relaxing again, his breathing slowing, deepening. His hands slow, then stop as his body relaxes completely and he surrenders to sleep. Not long after that you follow him, lulled into dreams by the beat of his heart. 

***

When you wake you’re disoriented because you’re alone in your bed, then you see the sliver of light under the fresher door. You rise and head to your kitchen to put on a larger-than-usual pot of caf. While you’re there you throw together a quick breakfast and pack some things for him to take with him. He’ll need to eat and ration packs are not exactly filling or enjoyable. At least this way he can have a decent meal or two until he can get somewhere where he can buy real food. 

Light spills into the room as the fresher door opens. “Hey,” he says in a voice tired enough that the com can’t hide it. “I was hoping to get the caf made before you woke up.” 

“You have a very long and busy day ahead. When you’ve got nothing on the schedule you can make the caf. Fair?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Have a seat. I’ve got breakfast and hot caf almost ready for us.” 

“Still spoiling me?” 

“A little, maybe.” A small smile plays on your lips. “Maybe I’m just trying to get a good review in the hospitality holos.” 

“You treat all your guests like this?” You can tell he’s trying to sound gruff and jealous, but at the moment it’s not working out too well for him. 

You’ve finished setting up the tray and check on the brewer. Ah, good. Almost done. Stalking over to the fresher door you slide past him and usher him out so you can take your turn. “What do you think, Mando?” Before he can answer you’ve shut the door and turned on the water. 

You use the fresher, wash up and clean your teeth. Running your fingers through your hair to neaten it as much as you can you’re finally satisfied you don’t look like a sleepy-headed mess. When you shut out the fresher light before opening the door you can see he’s got the lamp on but you knock, regardless. You’re not about to take any chances. 

“Come on out,” he calls. “It’s fine.” 

He’s sitting there on the bed with the tray, his back against the headboard and more than enough room for you beside him. You shut out the lamp on the way to the bed, and as soon as it’s dark the now familiar click-hiss penetrates the darkness, then the subtle noise of a cup of caf being sipped followed by a small sigh of pleasure. Climbing onto the bed very carefully you get yourself situated and reach out to the tray. With your own cup now in hand you do the same. 

“Kabodo said something to me when we were in the tunnels. He didn’t mean to say it, I don’t think, because he changed the subject the next second.” He’s hesitating, rambling a bit. He takes another sip of his caf. “We were going over who might be looking to cause trouble when he said that you were well prepared to deal with the Jedi and probably hate them and the Empire as much as Mando’ade do. What did he mean by that?” 

You break off some sweet bread, chew, swallow and follow it with a sip of caf. You hear the sounds of him starting to eat, as well. He’s not going to press, which makes you far more willing to talk, in the end. 

“When I was young my older brother was probably my best friend in the whole world. He taught me so much about the world around me, about having fun, stretching my imagination. He was my champion, my confidante, and my security blanket. He showed me that being brave was not the same as being fearless. That bravery meant being afraid, knowing you were afraid, and doing the right thing anyway.” You had a bit of fruit and some more bread, another sip. You haven’t told anyone in a long, long time. Not since the boys were all just past their teens and you had been sitting in the closed cantina drinking with them one night, telling stories from your childhood. “I was thirteen. He had just turned eighteen. He was taken by the Empire. ‘Conscripted’ they said. Put him to work as a low level security guard at the local archives.” 

He swallowed his bite of food. “If the Empire took him, why hate the Jedi?” 

“A pair of them showed up one day, looking to access files that weren’t open to anyone. Imperial files. My brother refused, but they – they manipulated him. As soon as they were inside he ran home. He told me what had happened, told me that even as he was doing it there was something inside screaming but it felt so far away. He said he could feel the Jedi in his head, feel him bending and twisting his will inside him. Troopers and some officer showed up not long after. He was executed for treason in our back garden, right in front of me. I don’t know if he had even hit the ground before they were walking away.” Swallowing the last of your caf you rise and grab the brewer from the kitchen, returning and refilling the cups on the tray. 

“The shame and the disgust in his voice when he said what was done to him, none of it mattered. That he had been used against his will didn’t matter. He was made to pay for no other reason than someone was angry and needed a target because they weren’t prepared and got caught with their pants down by two people who thought nothing of violating someone against their will and the consequences it might bring.”

You set the brewer down beside the bed, sit, and pull your knees up under your chin. Grabbing your cup you don’t drink, just allowing the prickling heat on your palms to keep you anchored in the here and now where the ache’s been dulled by time and age. 

“They didn’t even see him as real. He was just a puppet. Disposable. The person I loved most in the universe and they didn’t care about any of what he was or what happened. Not the Jedi, and not the Empire. None of them care about the consequences for anyone but themselves. Everyone else in the galaxy is expendable in service to their kriffing _egos_.” 

“That explains all the slug throwers,” he said, almost to himself. 

“Well, that’s not entirely the case. They’re good for more than just giving the Jedi a face full of hot metal.” You finally decide to take a sip before the cup cools too much to be thoroughly enjoyable. “Imp armor is designed to take a blow and absorb or deflect energy weapons, but they’re not designed for the force a slug has over such a small area. You can also be more stealthy with a rifle-style thrower. No bright trace to reveal your position if you’re sniping the enemy from afar.”

“You’ve killed before?” Not a hint of surprise in the voice, just a question like any other when you’re really getting to know someone. 

“More often than I’d like, less often than some deserved. Definitely less often than you have.” You let out a snorting laugh. “As I get older I find myself more easily provoked, but with a greater level of self-control.”

He cleared his throat quietly. “Speaking of self control – Are you done with your breakfast? I really want to kiss you and the tray is in the way.” 

You empty your cup in a gulp and set it on the tray, then set the tray on the floor. When you turn back and lay down facing him he pulls you to him where he’s laying on his side, propped up on one arm. His fingers trail along your arm, your neck, your jaw. He gently grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and when his lips meet yours you almost can’t feel him but for his breath.

Slowly the kiss deepens between you, all of the yearning you’ve felt poured into each other. As he grows hard against your belly you find yourself hungry for something more substantial than bread and fruit. 

You break the kiss and with your lips make your way down your lover’s body as he lays back and shivers under your touch. When you reach your goal he stiffens and puts a hand on your head, stopping you. You lay your head on his hip, tracing the length of his cock lightly with your fingers. 

“What is it?” Your breathy whisper brushes across his heat and you feel him twitch under your fingers, hear him suck in a breath.

“I– No one’s ever done that. I– I don’t know– I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Oh. Oh! He is an entire basket of surprises, isn’t he? 

“Just relax. You won’t hurt me.” You lick one thick stripe with your tongue from the base to the head as he trembles under you. “Come here,” you whisper as you guide him to the edge of the bed to sit and you drop to the floor on your knees. “Let me show you what I’ve thought about doing a thousand times.” 

“W-we’ve only known each other m-maybe f-four hundred days” Your hands wrapped around his base and your lips against his hot, leaking head are making him pant.

“I think about it a lot,” you purr.

He’s about to respond when you slip your lips over him and take him into your mouth, gently swirling your tongue around the tip then swallowing him down into your throat as you hum your satisfaction. He groans and his head falls back, then forward, as these new sensations short circuit his senses. The truth is, you loved the power of doing this to a man, and you enjoyed the act immensely for how it made them come undone. This time, though, there was a little more at stake. Your heart was in it, as strange as it sounded, and you wanted him to know it. 

As you work him slowly and steadily you can feel his hands on your shoulders tighten, his thighs trembling now and then as he tries to restrain himself from thrusting into your face. You breathe out gently and then take him into your throat again, reaching for his hands and placing them on the back of your head. His fingers twined in your hair, you backed off slowly to take a breath and release it before you push back on to him, almost all the way to the base. 

You stay there, where you can rest and breathe, and you can feel the growing tension and frustration. He’s a quick learner, though, and starts to guide your head. At first it’s tentative. He’s unsure of how far he can push you. Each time he pushes your head down he stops before he’s in too far, and you begin to go just a bit further than he’s willing to push each time. 

Slowly, as his moans grow louder and his breathing more erratic he loses his inhibitions and starts chasing his release. Your fingers are massaging his thighs, stroking and kneading him as he loses himself in your mouth and the overwhelming sensations of his first blow job. 

“Ah! Cyar’ika– I’m so close. Oh, Maker, your mouth– m-mar'eyce!” 

You reach up and cup his tight sack, squeezing and pulling gently, and this is what finally drives him over the edge with a roar. He pumps thick, salty ropes down your throat and you swallow every last drop of him, keeping him as deep as you can for as long as you can as his orgasm seems to go on and on, groans and cries ripped from his throat like he’s being tortured. He’s curled around you, shuddering and shaking and swearing in every language he knows. When he quiets you ease him out of your throat lapping your tongue around his shaft and head, flicking his over-sensitive frenulum lightly before you sit back on your heels and run your hands along his quaking legs. 

He collapses back on the bed, laughing and groaning. “Come up here,” he gasps. You hop up on the bed and he’s grabbing you in a bear hug and lavishing kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, your lips. 

“What about you?”

He’s sounding a bit shy, and there’s plenty more you’d like to do, but time is short and you’re still a bit sore from the previous day’s activities. 

“I got what I wanted.” You put a saucy tone in your voice, hoping to keep things light for now. “Besides, you have to get ready.” 

“Mmmmm, I suppose I do.” He buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply. “I love you,” he says with his nose nudging yours, his voice gruff with emotion. “I love you and I know you might not feel the same. Maybe it’s wrong, but I have for a long time. I can’t walk away again without you knowing.” 

You press your lips to his, over and over, whispering against his mouth, “I love you, and I need you and I won’t stop waiting for you. So be safe, be quick, and come home to me.”

He rolls you onto your back, taking control of the kiss and doesn’t stop until you’re gasping. The two of you melt into each other for a few moments, savouring the lightness that comes with confessing to love and having it reflected back to you without hesitation or restraint. 

Eventually he sighs deeply and kisses you one last time. You hear him grab his helmet and slide it on. Now it’s your turn to sigh as you rise to turn on the light. “So, what’s the plan, Mando?” 

He’s getting himself into his under armor and pauses, “I have a ship. It’s in good enough shape and fast enough I should be able to catch up with him, but I’m going to see Karga at the guild first, I think our beroya is still in contact with him.” He finishes dressing in his first layers and then sits on the bed. “I can take the opportunity to see if Karga has any work he can throw my way, as well. The covert has to be rebuilt and that’s going to take credits.” He sighs heavily. “It’ll be a change from training the others, at least.” 

“Well, let’s get to work and get you ready. The sooner you get it done the sooner I can see you again.” You lean into his shoulder and he rests the cheek of his helm on the crown of your head. 

*** 

Once you’re both dressed and you’re done packing up the throwers and ammo for him you pause in the kitchen for a moment, adding two more items to the package of supplies you’ve gathered for him. A small travel caf brewer/cup arrangement and a package of good caf. You can’t be there, but you can still spoil him a little while he’s away from you, right? 

Handing everything over to him you grab the bag of credits and tuck them into his belt pouch. He puts a hand over yours, “I don’t feel right taking this from you. I can find a way to get credits on my own, I don’t need to take yours.” 

“I’m not poor, by any means. This isn’t exactly a drop in the bucket, but it’s not going to make a dent in my savings. This place makes enough money to keep me comfortable forever, but I’m also no fool. Kresas has his own sideline as a fence, and I get a cut for letting him run it out of my place. It’s a lucrative little deal for me.” 

He bursts out in a genuine laugh, “Fine, but I’m paying you back every last bit. Deal?” 

“Deal.” 

He leans down in a keldabe kiss, hands at your waist as yours rest on his upper arms, just under his pauldrons. “Love you, cyar’ika.” 

“Love you, too. I’ll walk you out.” 

Making your way through the tunnel under the cantina you’re both silent. When you reach the exit he holds you tight, and you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to let go, but you do. He has a duty and you have no desire to be the cause of any regrets for him. Whispered words of love pass between you, promises and sweet desires, and then he’s slipping out into the sunlight. 

The door closes and you just stand there for a moment in the silence. Then the tears come. A sob escapes you, hot and harsh, and you’re sliding down the wall to sit in the dust and let out all the frustration and ache of letting him go, knowing you’ll always need to let him go. You love a man you have to share with something much larger than either of you, and that cuts a bit. 

The consolation comes when you think of all that you do have of him that is yours and yours alone. You dry your tears and head back to your little rooms and your bar and wonder how you’re going to face the next weeks without going mad. 


	6. Asterism

You’re standing in your rooms, having restored order and opened the windows. When you go to move the table back you realize, on seeing the thrower sitting there with the cartridges, that you had walked into the tunnel unarmed. Sloppy. You’ve let hormones and tender feelings get the better of your reason, a dangerous thing given what might still be coming. 

A dangerous thing, regardless. You know better. 

You blow out a breath and run your hand through your hair. You’re not going to sit on your ass for the next two weeks, so what can you do to help? You don’t have a comlink to him, it’s too risky, so looking for the beroya isn’t going to help. You can’t start asking around about who’s looking for whom without possibly tipping off someone you’re not yet aware of who is looking for the child, so that’s out, too. 

…and that’s another thing. There are force sensitive children all over the galaxy. Why _this_ child?

The best leads that you can follow up on without too much suspicion will be the ones that come out of the incident here on Nevarro. Incidents, rather. You’re still not convinced there’s only two factions at play or that the Empire was alone in causing that mess. If the Jedi and the Imps are aware and interested, then so is the New Republic and who knows who else. Perhaps not for the same reasons, but they’re going to want what their adversaries are so desperate to possess even if the only reason is thwarting those adversaries. 

So, in light of the size of the trouble, it stands to reason that there must be thousands of low-level bureaucrats with thousands of their own flunkies on all sides that have some knowledge of what’s happened. Troop movements, personnel issues, gear, clearances — All of it has to be requested, reviewed, approved, procured, and provided. Even if they don’t know directly what it’s for they’re not going to use a thousand different designations for where all of that is going. There will be, within each faction, a designation for the ‘operation’. A name. A number. Some flag that ties everything together.

So, find the flags and you can follow them through the vast stores of data, like the little ones in that story who were taken into the woods by a witch, the children dropping white pebbles along the way to lead them back home again in the moonlight. You, however, intend to head along that trail in the opposite direction and discover where all the child-stealing monsters are hiding. 

The best place to start, you figure, is casualty lists. Even the most sadistic organization keeps track of who lives and dies within their own ranks, and the families of the dead and injured often have more information and a lot more bitterness than the upper echelons realize. From there you can get a better idea of who was here and when. Given what you’ve been told by your Mando about the firefight there’s bound to have been plenty of grieving families that needed to be informed.

It never ceases to amaze you, all the intricate plots that factions’ spymasters will come up with, when all you need to do is slightly misrepresent yourself as a benefits or payroll department clerk, or a taxation department flunky, or a cleaning crew, or any other low-level employee of the machinery in order to gain the access and information they spend countless hours and credits on and often still fail to achieve. 

The faces, aims and headquarters may change, but bureaucracy will grind on as it has forever, until the last suns in the galaxy have burnt out and turned to ash. Thank the Maker for that. People aren’t stupid, but it’s been ingrained in them to trust the system, work within the system, and not question the labyrinthian procedures checks, and double-and-triple checks that each single action seems to require. They tend to go docile pretty quickly in the face of a list of dull questions and even more dull explanations.

With that settled, and feeling infinitely better now that you have something to do aside from just wait, you turn to the next order of business which is to get two of your Zabrak body guards to help you move the false wall in your cellar. 

It’s time to fully unpack the armory the previous owner had to leave behind. 

***

Two days and a lot of sweating later the floor of your space and Kresas’ are covered in carefully sorted piles according to function, range, and power. 

Slug throwers, blaster pistols, blaster rifles, a blaster cannon that caused Kabodo’s face to light up like he had just fallen in love, grenade launchers, grenades, flechette launchers, assorted and very illegal disruptor rifles, some nasty looking anti-personnel mines, and the list went on and on. There were even two Wookie bowcasters tucked away in a crate underneath some camouflage tarps. 

The melee weapons you left laid out in the storage space that had been hidden behind a very real, but removable, wall that cut the cellar space in half. If it had been made in the last 100 cycles anywhere in the galaxy and was designed to puncture, pierce, or smash you probably had it. 

When the smuggler Luciado Storfoll had opened the space up to show you he had offered to make an inventory, but you saw how stuffed it was and declined, telling him to name a price he thought was fair. You were getting the cantina cheap enough that the asking price for this stash seemed reasonable, though maybe — _possibly_ — a bit on the high side. 

You had never emptied the room out before, merely grabbing what you needed that was to hand and getting on with the business that required a weapon in the first place. You realize now that you had made the deal of the decade. You doubt Luciado had any idea what he even had in there. Some of it looked to have been in storage from even before he owned the place and would need serious cleaning or repair, but for the most part you were able to spend the next few days equipping every well-allied man and woman for whatever might be coming down on your little town. 

***

Your days after sorting the cache had quickly turned to long, frustrating hours of looking for information that should not have been difficult to find.. 

You didn’t necessarily have a contact within the Empire’s great machinery, but you had enough contacts adjacent to it that a lot of what you were looking for should have been readily available if this were any normal operation. 

You knew for a fact that there had to have been deaths and injuries. Given what carnage your Mando had described there should have been more than enough to generate thousands of data files that would be accessible. 

Instead there was nothing. It’s not that files were hidden, or erased, they had just never been generated in the first place. No orphaned file designations. No “missing” files. Nothing. For three weeks it appeared that time on Nevarro had ceased to exist as far as the Imps were concerned, and then everything was normal again. 

No medical records. No payroll. No supplies procured or used. No troop movements, personnel issues, or broken equipment. Not a single claim for compensation. No meals. Nothing. 

Nothing. 

So you asked them to double check, triple check. 

Nothing. 

You had them look for anomalies before and after. Anomalies in any other location that might have been a database “stand-in” for Nevarro. Maybe they were hiding everything that way?

Nothing.

After a week your messages start to go unanswered. Then they start to bounce back, “comlink ID unknown”.

That afternoon you take your datapad and your throw away com apart into the smallest possible pieces and vaporize them with a blaster on the sandy soil in the back garden, afterwards getting Kabodo and the twins to help you in turning the earth in the beds to hide the burn marks. 

Later that evening you close the cantina early and gather the boys together. 

“No!” Dukuk is shouting, which is normal, but so is Kresas, which is decidedly not normal at all. 

“You can’t do this,” pleads Dradru. “It’s madness! It’s too risky!” He pounds on the table, making the glasses jump and clink. “We’re not going!” 

“This isn’t a democracy and we’re not having a debate.” Your voice, like your resolve, is firm and unyielding. “You can’t do anything, anyway. I’m the one who made the mistake and if there’s a price for this _I_ will be the one to pay, not you or anyone else.” 

“They will drug you. Torture you. They will make you tell them everything.” Kresas, ever the pragmatist, has zeroed in on the real problem. “You know too much and they’re not going to go easy on you.” 

“It won’t get to that,” you state in a flat voice. “I know what my responsibilities are. We all do.”

“That’s my point,” says Kresas quietly. “You made your choices but that doesn’t mean you have to keep making the same ones. You can leave. Go into hiding.” 

“If I run what will they do to the rest of you? At least this way if things go very wrong they can have their bantha-dung victory party for eliminating one more of the ‘resistance’ and they’ll leave you all alone.” You drain your glass, and grab the bottle to pour everyone another.

“We’re not going to just abandon you to that, alone. What would our father say?” Kabodo’s voice is breaking. He’s got a soft heart, but he’s still young, just barely twenty. 

“Your father would tell you to save yourselves, and your mother, and spare everyone else the pain of you sacrificing yourselves to a cause that died a long time ago.” Fixing the young man with a steady gaze you reach for his hand and squeeze. “Don’t think for one second he did what he did just so the four of you could throw your lives away like this.” 

“What do we tell the Mando?” Dukuk is looking down at his glass, toying with it, his face serious. 

“If this goes badly? Tell him the truth. That I did what I had to do.” Sighing heavily, you fight the tears that threaten. “Tell him I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what? What the kriff are you planning?” From the back of the cantina a modulated voice booms out, making you all jump.

Your Mando is back.

Dukuk, that little fierfek snitch, wasted no time in spilling the events of the last few days. Your Mando hasn’t moved from the rear of the cantina. “…So then we knew that someone’s been tipped off to what she’s asking about and —” Here Dukuk trailed off, suddenly realizing that maybe he should shut his foolish mouth before you follow through with what the darkly homicidal look on your face is threatening. 

“And?” He moves a few paces into the room, his visor aimed at you expectantly. The tension in the room is nearing a breaking point and you wish you could just disappear rather than have this conversation here and now. 

You fold your hands in your lap and take a deep breath. “And I got rid of as much evidence as I could and made preparations for possible scenarios, including the worst case. I did exactly what you’d do in my position. What anyone smart would do.” 

“You were going to run?” His hands balled into fists at his side, the leather creaking. The boys’ faces were like open books and even if you thought you could get away with it you don’t want to start lying to him. 

“No. I’m not going to run. If I run and they come looking? Everyone here is in danger. You and the beroya, too. I can’t be responsible for that.” You’re doing everything you can, using every trick you know to keep absolutely calm, hoping that he’s not going to keep pursuing this right now. 

“If you don’t run they’ll catch you. The result is the same. You know that.” Kriff, he’s not going to let this go.

You swallow, start to speak, and then you have to swallow again when your throat is suddenly bone-dry. “It’s not going to come to that.” You stand and walk to the bar to pour a round of something stiff. “Can we just —” 

That’s the moment Kabodo breaks. “You have to stop her! Take her from here and help her hide. Please!” Kresas grabs him by the arm and drags him away from the table and past the Mando. In a moment you hear Kresas’ door slam shut. 

“Stop you from w _hat_ , exactly?” His obvious frustration has you on edge. He’s been gone for over a week, and you’ve missed him terribly, but here you are standing apart from each other feeling for all the world like you’re having an argument that neither of you started. 

Dradru gets up from his chair, elbowing Dukuk as he rises. “We should go check outside, do a walk around the building and make sure nothing’s out of place.” Dukuk, to his credit, follows him without argument, only pausing to throw a worried glance over his shoulder before he’s out the door. 

He’s walking across the room like he’s stalking a nervous animal he doesn’t want bolting. “Will you tell me what’s going on? I don’t like this feeling, like you’re hiding things.” He draws a little closer and stops, just out of reach. 

“I made a mistake. I got my teeth sunk into a mystery and I didn’t let go in time. I really should have known better. I went looking for information about what happened here, found a big, empty hole and I _couldn’t let it go_. Then my contacts started disappearing. The logical conclusion to draw from it is that they’re caught and I’m next.” You turn back to the bar for a moment and pull a bottle off the shelf. Regardless of what happens here you’re going to need a drink after. You’ve never been good with strong emotions, yours or others. The boys’ distress alone is enough, but this situation with your Mando is beyond anything you were prepared to deal with tonight. 

Setting the bottle on the bar you turn back to him. He’s still there, waiting, expectantly. 

“So why aren’t you going to run? If they’re coming, they’re coming. Once they have you, there’s nothing they would refrain from doing to get information out of you.” He tilts his helmet at you, and you know you can’t delay this any longer.

“If I run, they’ll harm everyone here to find out where I went. They’ll get more information about you, about people who helped us. Information about things that happened here a long time ago that will cause a lot of pain for a lot of people. The Imps don’t forget it when you step on their toes. If I’m here when they find me, but I’m of no use to them? They’re more likely to believe that no one else had a hand in any of this. They’re more likely to just take the win and leave.”

“No use to them? What are you talking about?” His hands are back into fists again. 

“You can’t interrogate the dead, Mando. A blaster shot to the skull and it’s game over even for the strongest Imp torturers, Jedi, or Sith trying to get into my head.” You pick up the bottle you had set on the bar, then face him, squaring your shoulders. 

“What?” You almost miss it, it’s so quiet. You wonder how his com even picked it up in the first place. 

“You heard me and I’m not repeating it. This isn’t a game, and there’s not going to be any negotiations. I have one thing I can do, if this goes the way it might, to try to guarantee the safety of people I have risked my life to protect again and again. To protect you and your tribe. To protect countless others who resisted and fought and trusted me to keep their secrets safe. I made a stupid mistake and the only person who is going to pay for that is me. I am hoping, desperately, that it doesn’t come to that, but I’m not naive and I’m not a fool.” 

“You can’t. You can’t do this. No — No I won’t let you.” He closes the gap between you, pulling you into a keldabe kiss, his arms about your waist. “You have to fight — let me fight with you. You can’t just give up.” 

“Don’t start with that bantha-dung stupidity about ‘a warrior’s death’. How many times have you charged into a firefight where it very well could have been seen as suicide?” That ugly word leaves your lips and you can feel him flinch. “There’s nothing noble about men and women dying for causes they have been forced or convinced to take up on someone else’s behalf. There’s just scared, hurt people dying alone in the dirt for something they may or may not really believe in. That’s not laudable, just a sad waste.” 

“So you’ll give up. Let them win? Please, Cyar'ika, there are other ways.“ His gloved fingers are kneading your back and you can hear his half-panicked breathing through his com. 

"It is not them winning. It’s me refusing to play.” You slide your free hand up his cuirass and around his neck. “And only if it comes to that. Not a moment before I have to, but I will _not_ let them get the chance to try to break me. If I die I will be whole and entirely myself and not a puppet or a traitor. Surely, you can understand that, can’t you?”

He sighs a defeated sigh, and pulls you into a tight embrace. “Yes, I can understand. I don’t accept it, though.” He releases you and pulls your hand from his neck, enveloping it in his large ones. “I’ve been away and I missed you. Let’s go talk where we can be alone.” 

***

Back in your rooms he removes his armor at the table, laying the pieces out quickly and carefully. It’s a lighter, new version of the heavy armor he had been wearing previously, less bulky, but still incredibly impressive. The paint is fresh and the beskar unscarred, but the helmet is the same. 

Not a word has passed between you yet. Heading into the kitchen you grab some glasses. Turning to him, you catch his eye and hold up a straw. He shakes his head and heads to the dresser to shut down the chrono. You grab the bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other and join him, setting everything on the floor. 

Once you’re situated on the bed you reach out and turn off the light. As soon as his helmet is released and on the floor he’s reaching for you, his lips meeting yours tenderly, sweetly. 

“Let me help,” he whispers, his nose grazing your cheek as he plants small, delicate kisses along your jaw. “Don’t think of leaving me just yet.” 

With that your resolve breaks. The stress of the last two weeks, the missing and the longing, the abject terror you’ve been holding back since this afternoon — All of it comes tumbling out in wrenching sobs against his chest. You’ve had only yourself to be accountable to until now and the realization of the pain your decision is causing stings deeply, too. 

He wraps you in his arms and pulls you into his lap, cuddling you close and stroking your hair, your back. Rocking you and just letting you get it out. 

You’re crying for your brother. For the boys’ father, Klebru. For everyone who fell in that useless war. You’re crying because you failed. Because you don’t want to go and you’re frightened of what lies ahead. Because you can’t imagine there’s an afterlife where you’ll be so lucky as to find your Mando again. You’re in mourning for everything behind you that is gone for good and all that might have been ahead of you, if only you hadn’t been so foolish. 

As you gain some measure of control and your shudders lessen you wipe your face on your sleeve, then pull off your shirt and toss it to the foot of the bed. “I’ll be right back.” Your voice is a bit husky from the crying and your throat feels badly used. 

In the kitchen you wash your face at the sink, pulling a clean dish towel from the drawer to dry off with. You drink some water from the bottle on your counter, swallowing gingerly. 

“Can we talk about this?” His tone is gentle, worried. 

“Yes, but first — I have to — I’m sorry. I’m sorry I — I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want — I just can’t abide others suffering because I did something so brutally stupid as to alert the Imps by noisily poking around in their very private business.”

“This isn’t your fault. Come here.” You hesitate and his voice becomes somehow both more gentle and more insistent. “Come. Here.”

You drift over to him, and as soon as you’re sitting next to him you’re pulled back into his arms and cuddled close. 

“It is not your fault. This all started when the Imps went after the child. We’re all caught up in something we don’t understand.” He sighs deeply, “I found him. It didn’t take long, just three days after I left Karga. I told him what had happened and he’s gone into hiding for now. I think.” 

“You think? You don’t know where he’s gone?” 

“He and I are not on the best of terms. We fought. I accused him of cowardice, and I was wrong. I believe he trusts me but I don’t think he’ll forgive me. I won’t forgive him too easily, either. The wounds are deep, Cyar’ika. We already lost so much to the Empire and now we’ve lost even more. Now, because of his greed and his hubris I could lose you, too.” His voice broke just a little and he cleared his throat. “I’ve agreed to take some bounties. I’ll need to replace the credits our beroya would have provided. There aren’t many of us left, and I need to see to it that my people survive. _All_ of them.” With this last he grips you tighter. 

You let out a shaky laugh, “I’m not used to this. Belonging to someone. With someone. Being — being more than just me.” 

“I can tell.” 

“Hey!” You give him a sharp poke in the side. “I thought you were being tender.” 

“I am, but you’re really not good at this, Cyar’ika. You have to share more than just your bed and your heart. You have to share the trouble and the pain, too.” He manhandles you into his lap, peppering your cheeks with kisses. “I know it’s hard. I know it feels like if you let it out it will never stop. It will, Mesh’la. We have to trust each other with all of it.” 

You cup his face, feeling how his stubble has been filling in to a short, soft beard. Bringing your lips to his you coax him into a deep, gentle kiss. When your lips part a hum of satisfaction rises from your throat. 

“I love you. Please forgive me for — for doubting. We’ll figure this out together.” You press a kiss to his lips between each sentence. 

“Okay. Good. We’ll get everyone together in a bit and we’re going to figure a few things out for tonight. Then you and I are going to bed.” He skims his hands around your hips and cups your bottom. “I need to show you how much I hated being away from you.” 

“You’re a terrible tease. Lucky for you I find you irresistibly charming when you talk like that.” You lean forward and run your lips up the tender flesh of his neck, nipping here and there, making him shudder and gasp. When you reach his ear you whisper, “It gets me dripping wet, aching. I can’t wait to have your hands on me, your mouth on me, your hard cock splitting me open.”

“Cyar’ika! That mouth. Such filthy poetry.” He gives your ass a hard squeeze.

“You inspire me, my love,” you giggle as you nibble his neck again. He gives your ass a hard slap, making you squeal. 

“Alright, enough of this for now. Business first, pleasure later.” He pulls you in for one last kiss. “Now, get up and let’s get presentable. They might know we’re together but we don’t have to look like we just stepped out of a Pleasure House.” 

As you straighten your hair in the fresher you start thinking about how hope is a funny thing. You didn’t have any just a few hours ago. You truly were in despair, feeling trapped and helpless and without an anchor. Until you remembered to trust you couldn’t begin to hope. You can’t possibly face this alone, but you’re _not_ alone. 

Exiting the fresher you remark, “Kabodo is going to be very relieved. Kresas might even stop yelling.” 

“Kresas was _yelling_? Kriff, you really riled them up.”

“Yes, so let’s go talk them down and get on with our evening, yes?” You stretch up on tiptoe and kiss the cheek of his helm.

“Oh, yes.”


	7. Asterism

Your knock on Kresas’ door is answered immediately. You can see Kabodo behind him, sitting on the couch and looking dejected. 

“Can you gather your brothers together? We need to talk.” 

Kres nods, relief washing over his face. He glances up at the Mando behind you, “We’ll meet you out in the bar.”

You and the Mando wander out to the dim and quiet cantina, and he sits at a table large enough for all of you while you grab fresh glasses, bottles and snacks. Dropping them off you grab a dishpan and clean up the table where you’d been sitting when your Mando came in. By the time you’re done the Zabraks have gathered and the men are all talking quietly, gesticulating and nodding with great emphasis. 

You arrive at the table in time to hear your Mando say, “You’re going to have to ask her, because I haven’t yet.” His voice is gruff and almost embarrassed. 

“Ask me what? Hmmm? Are these little fierfek gossips prying, maybe?” You give the boys your best ‘unimpressed unofficial aunt’ look and they all laugh. 

“I asked him if you were his woman now.” Dukuk says, lacking any shame at all and enjoying teasing you now as much as he always has. 

“Dradru, remind me to tell your mother how her speeder ended up with that 2000 credit ‘minor dent’ the next time I see her, okay?” 

“It’s a legitimate question. You said it yourself, many times, that you’re just like our sister. Well, your _brothers_ want to know what his intentions are.” Dukuk takes the glass you offer and passes it to his twin, taking another off the tray for himself. 

“Since when do you kids care about the ‘intentions’ of the men in my life?“ You arch an eyebrow, looking to Kresas for help and realizing he was enjoying this far too much. You set the tray down on the table and cross your arms, shooting an annoyed look at Dukuk.

"Since you found one that you allow back for a second night,” he quips. “Since you emptied out the armory. Since you gave away two of your slug throwers. Since you found one that can actually make you change your mind once it’s made up —” 

“Yes, yes. Thank you Dukuk, we get the point,” you cut him off, glancing at the impenetrable façade of the visor now pointed at you. 

“So,” pipes up Kabodo, turning to face the Mando and fix him with his most intimidating look. You’d laugh, but you know the young man has had a bad shock and is only acting out of fraternal concern. “What are your intentions?”

You yelp as you’re pulled into a beskar covered lap and enveloped in a set of very strong arms. “My intentions, young Zabrak, are to keep this woman happy and fight by her side for as long as she’ll allow it.” He gives you a squeeze and you relax against his cuirass, enjoying the way it feels to be in his arms. You rarely abide public displays of tenderness, or at least you haven’t in the past, but this feels — right. 

He leans in close enough that you can hear his real voice along with the com, “I hope that’s acceptable,” he asks you quietly. 

You lay your head against his helmet and whisper into his audial, “Yes, that sounds like a fine idea.”

“Good. We’ll negotiate the finer points later. When we’re alone,” this last being said loud enough for the boys to have most certainly heard. “Now that the question of my intention has been settled, can we get on to the more important business of how we’re going to keep this woman alive and safe?" 

"I think the first question we need to ask is how sure we are the Imps are coming.” Kresas grabs a bottle of some very sweet and powerful liquor, one of his favorites, and pours out generous servings into everyone’s glasses.

“I covered my tracks, used throw-aways, never gave my contacts anything on me, and made all transactions via anonymizing services in a rotating, random chain.” You bite your lip, thinking back on what else you might have done to hide. “I still think they’re going to find me, and I’m sure they’re looking. They have more resources than you realize and whatever this is they went to a lot of trouble to keep it hidden, even from their own people." 

"Do you still intend to follow through with your plan?” Kresas can’t bring himself to look at you until he’s done asking the question. Everyone stills and the arms around you tighten just a little bit more. 

“If they come for me and they’re going to take me I won’t hesitate, but I agree that I shouldn’t just sit here and wait for them to show up." 

"I have bounties to collect. If you come with me you’ll be off everyone’s radar. Even if the Imps are told who you left with they’ll not risk angering the Guild by asking questions or interfering in their business.” Your Mando’s hand slips down to your hip and squeezes, “If they think they still have a shot at finding you they’ll leave this place and your people intact. They will rely on you coming back as long as you have something to come back to." 

You know he speaks from very recent experience, recalling the way his voice broke in the dark as he told you about the troopers waiting in the ruins of his former home, waiting for any Mando'ade who might come looking for something left behind. 

"Okay, so I go with you. That’s really just a temporary solution to what might be a much less temporary problem. I don’t feel right just going without any further plans." 

"We’re going to call in a favour,” says your Mando, mysteriously. 

“And?” Your tone leaves no question about your opinion on 'mysteries’. 

“This is something else we’ll negotiate in private, Cyar'ika. Can you trust for now that I may know a way to keep the Imps off your back for at least a little while, until we can come up with a more permanent solution?”

“Yes, I can do that.” You decide not to push, realizing that the less the brothers know the easier it will be to hide your plans from anyone who comes asking. Plus, he did say you’d negotiate, so whatever it is he’s not going to play the heavy and try to force you into anything. “So if that’s taken care of we need to work out a plan of action in case they do show up.”

Kresas gets up and grabs pencils and paper from behind the bar, and the five of you settle in for a planning session. You’ll do your best to see they’re ready and you trust in these people to be cautious with their words and actions. You’ve all been through many fights and many minor bureaucratic scuffles and none of it is new or all that unexpected. Life out here is hard, as are the people living it. They’re not naive and they’re not traitorous so you expect they won’t go looking for a reason to use the weapons you’ve supplied, but knowing they have them puts your mind at ease a little. 

After an hour you’ve worked out a plan of action that the Zabraks will organize with the town’s security, such as it is. All the people who would resent being left out have had a role fleshed out for them and everyone who would resent being asked to risk themselves or their possessions will be offered arms and safe harbour here, if needed, otherwise they’ll be warned of anything coming and left alone. 

No one is to start a fight until the Imps make a move. Just melt away, keep watch, and be ready to go if it kicks off. Help people get to the cantina if they need to, making it look natural and using the tunnels as much as the door. 

Your Mando’s hand is rubbing absently up and down your back, tracing your spine with gentle fingers. “I will give you a comlink code to contact us, but it can only be used once. If we need to get a message to you someone will come here with it. They’ll ask if ‘Vedzu Zymai’ still works here. You’ll tell them ‘Vedzu left to visit Truudth Hist’ and they’ll give you the message. If it’s not safe for them to speak simply give them any other name and they will return another time. If they shouldn’t return, if it’s not safe, simply say ‘no’. They won’t come back.”

“Can we send a message back with them?” Dradru seems to be taking after his older brother more and more, always trying to think a step ahead.

“No. They won’t know anything about any of us, only that they must follow the same instructions I’ve just given you.” His hand on your back stills. “If — if — something happens someone will come.”

Kresas stands up and begins to collect the empty bottles. “When do you leave?" 

"There’s plans to make, still.” You slide a hand around the back of your Mando’s neck and squeeze. “Tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, so we should say goodnight. It’s a long day ahead.”

“We’ll have time to talk again before you go?” Kresas is unreadable, but his brothers are not. You’re all worried, and will be until this is over one way or another. 

“Yes, Kres. I promise.” 

***

“So — new job, new armor?” You’re watching him remove his beskar and lay it out. You’ll need to get him something proper for — after. Later. If there is a later.

“I need to be faster, lighter on my feet. I had my armor remade, new kom'rk, a better sen'tra. I refit my ship with a carbonite freezing unit. Karga gave me two jobs. Finished those before I came back.” He fishes in his belt pouch and pulls out the bag you had given him, setting it on the table. “It’s all here. I made it back and then some, so we’re set. I have more jobs — and they’re going to pay well.” 

“Paying well means ‘dangerous’ in that line of work.”

“Everything is dangerous in that line of work.” He continues removing his gear methodically. 

“I suppose so. There are, however, degrees of risk.” 

He removes his cuisses and then his knee plates. Shucks off his boots. When he’s done he’s only in his heavy pants and his soft under shirt. He turns to you, but doesn’t move from the table. “I could say the same to you.” 

“Point taken.” You see he’s hesitating. Why is he hesitating?

“You’re not alone anymore — not if you don’t want to be. I can’t promise you a simple, peaceful life and a pretty house somewhere — but I know that missing you has been a constant ache and being condemned to a lifetime of that? I can’t live with it if I don’t have to. Even when it was just a few days here and there, before any of this — I’m unhappy without you. But I’ll be unhappier if you aren’t doing this freely. It’s complicated — my life, your life —” He looks up and his visor is fixed on you. He stops, sighs and turns to sit on the couch. When he’s settled he continues, “I have room enough on my ship for both of us and there is nothing I’d like more than to have you all to myself, but is it what you really want? Are you doing this because you really want to or because you feel you need to appease them — and me?”

Your heart feels like it’s breaking, but it’s the sweetest pain. Despite it all, despite his own feelings, he is desperate to ensure this is your own free will at work and nothing else. Here is a man who seems to want you more than anything, a man who enjoys control on so many levels — just thinking of his commanding voice telling you to put your hands on the table while he explored you leisurely has you aching for him — yet if you were not in total agreement that would be the end of it. 

Whatever deliciously dark games he might want to play with you when you’re alone it’s not going to blunt your autonomy in his eyes. 

"I always wondered what it would be like, you know,” you say as you walk over and sit beside him. 

He slides an arm around you and pulls you close. “What?" 

"Running away on an adventure across the galaxy with a charming, yet mysterious, bounty hunter.” You slide a hand over his chest, to his heart. “I’m going because I want to. I see the wisdom in it. And — I don’t want to leave you. I’m not ready to give up.”

He lets go of a small sigh of relief, holds you a little closer, “Then we’ll go once you’ve made any arrangements you need to. Right now, though, I’d like to take you to bed, mesh'la. There’s something I’ve been meaning to do.”

“Yes, please,” you say demurely and the moment the words leave your lips he’s scooping you up and carrying you to the bed. Maker, he is _strong_. 

He lays you down gently, his hands roaming everywhere for a moment before they leave you as he leans over to shut out the light. You hear the soft sound of his helmet hitting the mattress at the end of the bed and then he’s on you, one strong thigh between yours, his powerful arms on either side of you as he props himself up and kisses his way across your shoulder, your neck, along your jaw to your ear.

His beard has grown in a bit more, but he’s kept it trimmed and it’s delightfully soft against your cheek. “I am dying to taste you.” He nips lightly at your earlobe and then trails down to plant a sucking kiss on the pulse point of your neck, sending a burst of fireworks to your brain. “It’s almost all I could think of." 

"Al-m-most?” You can’t catch your breath as he nibbles and sucks his way back to your lips and then kisses you until you’re both wild and gasping. 

“I’d sit in the pilot’s seat and think about you on your knees. I want to watch you take me — want to see that pretty mouth wrapped around me —” He strips off your shirt, his mouth devouring your breasts as soon as the garment was lifted from them. He’s on you like a man starved and your flesh is the sweetest, ripest fruit. Teeth, tongue and lips — everywhere — Suckling at your nipples, biting your skin, fingers pulling more of you into his hungry mouth. “Dreamed about you riding me — woke up so kriffing hard it hurt — like I was a kid again, about to spill into my sheets.” 

He growls deep in his throat then and pulls away from you, grabbing at the waistband of your pants and yanking them down, pulling them off you and tossing them away. He crawls back up and kisses you again, his fingers exploring you, slipping into the slick cleft between your thighs and teasing your clit. “The thing I thought about the most was how you taste.” He drew his fingers up and slid them into his mouth. The sound of him sucking your arousal off himself was too much for you, you were a moaning, panting mess. 

You’re begging, babbling, “Please, please taste me. I want — Oh, Maker, I want your mouth on me. Please — 

He silences you with a kiss and then whispers against your lips, “I’m going to give you my name. It’s for you and you alone. I want to hear you moan it — hear you scream it — I want you — want to hear it — Paz. Paz Vizla.” 

“Paz — ” He’s kissing you again, moaning into your mouth, hands gripping you, pulling at you, stroking, pinching — 

“Say it again,” he begs. 

“Paz. My Paz. Oh — please — show me what you’ve been dreaming of.”

There are no more words between you as he slides down between your thighs and takes your sex into a sucking, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue darts out, parting your lips, and he groans as he finally tastes the source of his desire. 

“So sweet — and all for me.”

“Yes — oh, yes. All yours — anything, everything, take it — it’s all yours — Maker! Paz!” He steals your words from you with a swipe across your aching clit, using everything he learned about you with his talented fingers to take you even higher with his hungry mouth. 

What he may lack in practical experience he seems determined to make up for with a complete focus on every twitch, every sound, every whispered plea of his name that leaves your lips— taking all his cues from you.

Your hands are on the back of his head, the short hair there threaded between your fingers and your nails digging into his scalp, making him growl against your heat. 

“Cin'tal— ujyc— Ibac'ner—” He licks at you, slow and steady, making your back arch off the bed. Paz growls again, low and deep, and threads his arms around the back of your thighs and across your hips. He pins you to the mattress, sucking alternately on your labia and then your sensitive, throbbing bud. Between teasing sucks he’s spilling his soul into you with his words—

“Wanted this for so long— wanted to taste you, hear you—”

He pushes his tongue into you, slowly teasing at your entrance, then plunging in to taste the fount of your desire for him.

“Get so wet for me— so sweet—” He licks at your slit like a happy puppy, lapping up your slick and moaning with pleasure. 

“Just want to please you— make you feel so good— Want to make you forget everyone else—” Paz takes your sex in his mouth and sets up a rhythmic, pulling suction that makes it feel like your legs are on fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably. 

“The way you come undone for me— ahhhh— I want to find all the sweetest spots— want to explore you forever—”

He slips his hand from your belly where he’s keeping you pinned and you feel his thick, powerful fingers slipping along your folds, but not entering you yet.

“Paz, please— I— Oh, Maker— Paz—”

“What do you want, Cyar'ika? Tell me. Tell me what you need my little darling.”

“Fuck me Paz. F-fuck me with your fingers while you lick me. Make me— oh, please don’t tease.”

With that he’s gone, pushing his fingers into you and fluttering his tongue on your clit, fucking you deep and curving his digits to stroke against that spot inside you that makes the stars fall inside your head. 

Your orgasm crests and you pause at the edge of the precipice, “Paz — Oh, yes, Paz! Don’t stop— Don’t ever stop—” and then he’s twisting his fingers inside you and you feel your muscles bear down on his hand as you tip over the edge. You’re rolling your hips against his tongue as you scream his name and those of all the gods you can remember, bliss overtaking you and robbing you of all coherent thought. 

He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his head away, babbling, “Too much, oh— please, I can’t!”

He wastes no time in throwing off the rest of his clothes and joining you again on the bed. He seeks and finds your lips, kissing you deeply. His beard is soaked with you, you can taste yourself on his lips, and it’s paradise.

“Gonna do that a lot, Cyar'ika. Every chance I get. That and — So. Much. More.” Each word punctuated by a deep, loving kiss. 

“Mmmmmm, please — but I need you, now — need you to take me and fill me and make me yours all over again — please,” you beg, sweetly.

“Always, Cyar'ika — always,” his voice is choked with lust and love and pure adoration. You think you need to pinch yourself, or maybe him, to make sure this is real. 

In a moment, though, you have no doubt as he grasps your hands in his, bringing them over your head and holding them there, his forearms resting on the pillow. His hips surge forward, but stop just as the head of his cock is lined up with your dripping, aching core. He settles himself so he’s nose to nose with you, pressing a small, tender kiss to your lips. 

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing forward into the slick heat of you, slowly filling you the way you’ve been aching for. You melt into one another slowly, whispering and kissing as your hips meet in a seamless and languid rhythm like waves on a sun-dappled sea. 

“Love you —” 

“So good —” 

“Dreamed of you here with me —” 

When he releases your hands so his own can roam you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. His hips roll into you, and he gasps as he bottoms out and then somehow finds that spot where he can slip in a little further. He breaks it to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing deep and fast. “You’re so hot — wet — you’re so _willing_ — so soft — beautiful — and it’s all for me — Can’t believe it’s all for —” His breath comes out in a choked sob and he buries his face in your neck. 

“I love you, Paz. So much. I’m yours, my love. Yours. Give it all to me, let it go. I won’t leave you — can’t leave you.” 

He thrusts into you, deep and slow. Once, twice, and then every muscle in his body seems to tense to the breaking point and he’s calling your name, calling out to you like he needs to be saved. You capture his lips and kiss him and then he’s whimpering into your mouth as his seed fills you and spills out of you as it goes on and on. 

As his spasms quiet he stays deep within you, still hard. He nudges your nose with his, kisses you and then lets a bit more of his weight fall on you, pinning you to the bed under him. “The bed on my ship is comfortable enough, but it’s small. We should try sleeping like this to save room.” He pecks at your lips again and you can feel the teasing smile on his face. 

“It would help us keep track of one another,” you reply, primly, earning yourself a pinch on the bottom and another kiss through laughter. 

“Let’s get cleaned up and then we can make a plan for tomorrow. I’d like to have enough time to get a good night’s sleep and I plan to have you again before that.” His deep voice sends a small shockwave through you and you hear his intake of breath as you clench around him. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then, Cyar’ika.”

***

You shower together, both of you wrung out and satisfied enough that it became an incredibly intimate act of care. You wash one another in the dark, letting touch guide you, nothing needing to be said and no need to rush. When you’re clean and fresh again and you’re wrapped in large towels you take his hand to wander back into bed to talk. 

As you slide between the sheets you ask the question that occurred to you while you were in the fresher, but could wait. 

“Hey, Paz?”

“Yes?”

“How much room do you have in your weapons locker?" 

“It’s a modified transport. Troops and light cargo. There’s plenty of room in the hold for anything you might want to take.” 

“When you were in the cellar, did you notice anything odd?” 

“No, why? What’s this about?” 

“Can you trust that I have a very nice surprise for you in the morning?” You’re thinking of the stacks of weapons still left under your floor, crates and crates of firepower and outright ordnance. You may have a clever solution to a problem that hasn’t yet reared its head, but might. 

“Yes, Cyar’ika, but I’ll ask you first thing.” He kisses you quickly and lays back. “Now, what do we need to do before we leave?” 


	8. Asterism

This list of what you need to gather is short: Supplies. Credits. Your own gear and body armor. Aside from that you’re not going to need much else. **  
**

While you’re no space-faring adventuress you’ve spent enough time travelling to know how life aboard a ship goes, with limited space and a significant amount of downtime. Normally you’d be thinking of what to bring to occupy yourself, but now you’re looking forward to spending that time with your Mando— with Paz.

If this evening is any indication you’re going to be more than pleasantly occupied. 

Ever since you came back to your rooms, after he laid bare his feelings and his worries, there’s been a subtle shift. Laying here and talking he’s playing with your breasts, cupping and stroking them for nothing more than the satisfaction of having you in his hands. 

“We can get additional fresh supplies when we pick up fuel, so for now we should expect a week before we stop, so plan for two just in case,” he says and then leans down, trailing his lips along your belly then sucking at the skin under your navel hard enough that you know it’s going to leave a mark. 

He releases your skin with a pop and kisses the damp flesh. “I need to get air and replace the filters on the scrubbers. The compressor unit on the air tank’s intake’s been acting up and I’m not taking any chances. I’ll grab two tanks of breathable and that way even if the pump dies we’re good for a month.”

“You have a water tank or is it going to be cans?”

“Got a set of tanks and a heater. 10,000 litres each. I don’t keep ‘em full to save on fuel in atmo, but maybe we can work something out if you prefer showers over the sonic.” His lips trail up again, fastening on a nipple and suckling lazily as he rolls the other between his fingers. 

“If you’re not careful I’ll start to think you’re trying to spoil m—” Your words are cut off by a gasp as he nips at you lightly. 

“What was that, Cyar'ika? Spoiling you? Yes, I plan to spoil you. Spoil you for anyone else,” He latches on to your other nipple now and sucks long and hard, the pleasure-pain of it overwhelming and delicious as you grip his head and arch your back. 

His hands grab your waist and he slides down, nestling himself again between your legs, kissing your mound and running the tip of his nose along your slit to tease you as he breathes you in. 

“Can’t get enough,” he rumbles, licking up the wetness he’s causing to spill from you. “The way you taste, your scent, the feel of you on my tongue—” He dives in, kissing you open mouthed and gently tounging your sensitive bud, and it’s not with getting you off in mind but just for the taste, the feel, the joy of having you close to him. He plants a kiss right over the top of your cleft and then nibbles at the inside of your thigh. 

“Galley’s big enough, it’s got a cooker, a chiller— so we won’t be reduced to ration packs.” He turns his head to nibble and lick at your other thigh for a moment, then slides back up the bed to cuddle you, your legs tangling together again. 

“I’ll head to the market while you get air and deal with the scrubbers,” you say as you nestle close. “What about med supplies?” 

“Can you look it over when you bring the stuff from the market? I think we’re good, but I’d feel better if you made sure we’re not missing anything.” 

“Sounds good. I’ll check incidentals, too.” You plant a kiss on his chest. “Wouldn’t do to run out of soap a week out from a stop.” 

“You plan to get dirty often?” 

“I plan to get positively filthy every chance I can, Mando, and I expect you to assist me in that regard,” you tease, kissing him lightly. 

“You know,” he says, his voice taking on a surprisingly saucy tone, “I’ve never had a woman on my ship who wasn’t in a set of binders. It might take some time to get used to.”

“Well, I guess if it gets to be too much you’ll just have to slap the binders on me for a bit, yeah?" 

He growls low in his throat and pulls you against him, peppering kisses to your face and neck, "Where have you been my whole life?”

“Waiting for you to find me, I think. What took you so long?" 

"Hmmmm, I think we should share the blame, no? We can spend our time making it up to one another.” Paz kisses you deeply, hands now starting to wander in earnest. 

You break the kiss and roll him onto his back, straddling him. He gives a surprised grunt at the sudden change of position but when you lean forward to kiss him again he melts into it without hesitation. 

Now it was your turn. Your turn to nibble, lick, and bite the tender place on his neck that makes him practically whimper with greedy pleasure. It’s your turn to pull a pebbled nub between your lips and suck, his hands flying to the back of your head as he lets out a gasp, half pulling you away and half trying to pull you closer for more. 

You release his nipple and give it a wide lick with the flat of your tongue, drawing from him shudders and groans. “Was that good?” 

“I-it was— it was so much.” He’s panting, still gripping your head. 

“More?” 

“Yes, more— ah!” His voice is hoarse with bliss and surrender. 

You take your time, teaching him that flesh is flesh and that all flesh is pleasure. A nipple. An earlobe. The inside of the elbow. The tender curve where hip melts into belly. The tendon stretching between groin and thigh that thrums deliciously when gently bitten. Kitten licks along his throbbing shaft. On and on you tease until he’s a trembling mess, unable to voice anything beyond moaning your name as he writhes beneath you. 

Straddling his hips again you grind your dripping core along his hard cock as it twitches against his belly, getting him slick and ready. Paz reaches up for you, pulling you in to claim your mouth with his, wildly hungry for you. 

Reaching behind you and grabbing his length at the base you sink onto him. You release his cock and in the same motion you grasp his wrists and pin them to the pillow on either side of his head as you feel him bottom out inside you. Paz is too wrecked to do anything at this point but take it from you as you use him to pleasure yourself, swiveling your hips and dragging your clit across his pubic bone when you grind down. 

You work yourself on him, chasing your release, and it doesn’t take long for the fire to light with how sensitive you still were from earlier this evening. As your orgasm begins to build Paz gains some control and starts to thrust back into you. You’re blissed out, moaning, babbling about how good he feels, how deep he is. 

“Touch yourself, mesh’la. I need to feel you come undone around me— Gedet’ye, Cyar’ika,” he groans into your mouth as you kiss him. 

You reach down to your throbbing clit and begin to swirl your fingers around it in time with your grinding thrusts. You feel the tightening, the firestorm in your nerves raging, and then everything in the universe ceases to exist but you and Paz and the orgasm that’s tearing you apart. His hands grip at your hips he lifts you and drives into you relentlessly, finding his own release. 

Collapsing on him as his arms come around you, you feel a deep sense of contentment. You feel truly spent, absolutely satisfied, and completely comfortable. Nuzzling into his neck you kiss him sleepily, humming in pleasure as he rubs your back and sighs. 

“Don’t forget to pack your party dress, mesh’la. My cousin is still expecting us.” He trails his fingers down over your rear, then back up again to bury them in your hair and turn your head so he can kiss you. “We’re supposed to stay a few days, but that will be up to you.” 

“They know you’re bringing someone?” 

“They know I’m bringing you,“ he kisses you again, "We’ll have guest quarters instead of having to stay on the ship.”

“No one will object to an aruetii?”

“No one will object to my woman,” he growls as he rolls you over and curls around you. “D'you mind showering in the morning? I don’t think I can stand,” he says fuzzily as he nuzzles your neck.

“Sounds good to me. I’m not sure I’d be steady on my feet, either." 

***

In the morning, once you’ve showered and finished a quick breakfast, with two cups of strong caf each, Paz reminds you of the surprise you’ve promised to reveal. 

“I think you’ve been patient enough,” you say as you lift the section of floor hiding the entrance to the cellar and head down the ladder. “Come see what you missed the last time you were down here.” 

“Maker!” Paz has followed you down and is staring around at the space which had been hidden behind the false wall. “You have enough here to start a kriffing war of your own, if you wanted to. How much of this were you wanting to take?”

“As much as I can reasonably fit in your ship. I have a feeling it might come in handy for either security or as a bribe— and I want to give the ordnance and the anti-personnel mines as a gift to your covert, along with whatever else you think your people could use.” 

“You’re sure? You won’t need this here?” He’s still looking through crates and shaking his head now and then as if in disbelief. 

“Everyone in town who is willing is armed to the teeth and we’ve got caches here and there. Decide what you think is best and mark the crates with those labels on the table over there. Kres and the boys will help you haul them up. I’ll call for a droid transport for the crates when we’re ready to head to your ship.” 

“And these?” He indicates four two-by-one-by-one metre dura-steel caskets sitting in the corner with your name prominently labeled on them. 

“My personal collection,” you say with a certain amount of pride. “I saved the best and the most interesting of what was left. We can go through them together when there’s time— I think you’ll be pleased.” 

“What I am is impressed.” He stalks over to you, takes you in his arms and grabs your ass.

“Hey, now. We’re supposed to be getting ready, not playing love-games in the cellar,” you tease as you reach around and swat at his rear. 

“Hey!” 

“I like the new armor. No butt plate to get in the way of some much needed discipline.” You slap his ass again, “Now get to work while I go up and pack. We’ve got a lot to do today.” 

Heading up the ladder you grab your own list and start sorting.

You pack a case with personal items, clothes, toiletries, and the throwers hidden in the linen closet. Dragging the case over by the door you turn and start in the kitchen. Some of the fresh goods should come with you, plus the caf and your preferred tea. The rest you pack for Kresas and he and his brothers will see it gets to someone who needs it. You shut the lid on the hamper and start to fasten the buckles as Paz comes up the ladder. 

“I marked the crates with the launchers and the grenades, and the ones with the mines, too. Noticed you’d already done a few, so I set those with the ones I chose, and your own collection by the bottom of the ladder.” He chuckles a bit, “Good thing I’m a beroya and not a smuggler or I’d have no room for merchandise.” 

“I just hope it’s enough to make a difference. It’s better that it’s in the hands of your people than rotting away down there.” You sigh, and look around. “I think that’s everything. Do you have a list for the market? I want to head out there soon.” 

“On the table. You’re sure about this, yes?” 

“Don’t mistake my mood for regret. I’m just being— sentimental, I guess? I haven’t left Nevarro in a very long time, and I’ve slept in my own bed each night for just as long. I’ll miss it while I’m gone, but I’m ready.” 

He crosses the room, taking you in his arms and gently placing his helm against your forehead. “I wish I could kiss you right now,” his voice tinged with longing, but thankfully no regret or resentment. 

“You are.” You lay your hands on the sides of his helmet. “We’re nowhere close to done but when we’re on our way you can kiss me on the lips until you’re sick of kissing me.”

“Yes, alor’ad!” He stands straight as an arrow and gives you a mock salute. 

“Excellent! Now go get the boys.” 

***

“Crates are all ready. Kabodo’s gone off to see if he can find Rammark. He’s got four skids now and good droids for them.” Kres hefts the basket of food from your kitchen off the bar and sets it in the chest chiller under the counter. “I’ll take this over to the community kitchen later. Mother says she’ll look after the garden while you’re away, though that mostly means the four of us will look after it to her standards.” He chuffs a laugh. They may all be grown up, but their mother is a force to be reckoned with and she is not going to put up with less than their best. 

“Keep your brothers out of trouble, Kres. Keep paying them and don’t do anything ridiculous, okay? I’m coming back and I don’t want to find you’ve suddenly decided to turn this place into one of those fancy dance clubs like they have on Coruscant.” You’re doing your best to hold back tears, hating to say goodbye to a good man and a good friend, worried for what the future will bring. 

“Be careful, and listen to your man now and then, okay? He loves you. Almost as much as we do.” The Zabrak pulls you into a sudden and crushing hug, “Just come home.”

You squeeze him back with everything you’ve got. “I will Kres. I promise. You’re not inheriting this place just yet.” 

He releases you and grabs a basket from the back counter. “Here, I packed a few favourites and a few other things you might like.” 

Looking in the basket you see he’s got a bottle of your own favourite herbal liquor, a bottle of your Mando’s most requested, along with some fancy stuff— and a bottle of Spice Wine.

“Where did you get _that_?” 

He looks down and actually blushes. “Sudaa likes it.” He can’t meet your eyes. So the girl he’s been seeing isn’t just a shy, sweet thing that waits quietly for him a couple nights a week. Good for him, he deserves some fun. “I’ll bet she does,” you tease, causing him to flush further. “If you need your place to yourself, send your brothers to sleep at mine.”

“Don’t tell Mother about— about the wine, okay?” 

“Kres, how do you think that guy knew he’d find a buyer in here? Do you honestly think your parents weren’t as wild as you are?” You laugh at his obvious squirming. “No, I won’t tell your mother. Just be careful, okay? Now, I’d best get the supplies and meet him at the ship. I’ll put this basket with the rest of the stuff to go on the skids. See you at the dockyard?”

“Yup, we’re coming out with the delivery. Your Mando’s promised to show Dukuk the carbonite unit.” 

“Oh, he’s going to love that. He’d be a terror if he had the opportunity!” 

***

The shopping didn’t take long. You’d be somewhere with markets within a week, two if everything went wrong, so there wasn’t much to get. Some meat, a bit of fruit, a few greens and some other vegetables, bread and some flour and the like to make your own after a few days. You picked up a jar of blumfruit preserves and a box of dried quinberries, plus some additional caf, some wonderfully sticky pastries, and fresh spices. You planned to cook him something to remind him a little more of home, and for that you needed the spices as fresh as possible to get the right _hetikles_ , or ‘nose burn’, that is the mark of all good Mandalorian cuisine. 

Consulting the note with the berth number at the dockyard you called for a speeder-taxi and headed off to see the ship you’d be living in for the foreseeable future. 

You’ve got time to think on the ride out, so you relax back against the seat to stare at the sky after giving the droid pilot your destination and handing over the credits. It’ll be the last day you’ll see this sky for a while. You’ll miss the particular shade it gets mid-afternoon, the light soft and scattered and almost grey from the dust kicked up. That same dust gave the whole town a slightly antique look, settling into cracks and muting colours, somehow making it seem more peaceful than it really was. 

Maybe that sense of peace was really just a sense of home? Nevarro hadn’t been where you planned to settle, but it was what had been under your feet when you stopped, and didn’t that make it home as much as any other place you may have dreamed of choosing? You’d made a life here. Friends and family. Community. You had your bar and your garden and your rooms. You wanted for nothing. Except, perhaps, actual peace. It was rare enough but you supposed you’d all managed to find a bit of it once the war was ‘over’ enough to no longer be on your doorstep. 

Now that the remaining echoes of the war were threatening your town it was down to luck and hope and you didn’t feel that either were going to be enough. They had to be enough, though. 

Shaking your head you see you’re approaching the dockyards, ships lined up neatly. You try to pick out the one belonging to your Mando, but can’t decide and instead you busy yourself gathering up your packages and bags, looking up when the vehicle stops. 

You exit the vehicle and stand in front of the Lancer Class ship. It’s obviously an older model, and it’s had a few modifications and some definite major repairs since it rolled off the line. The paint is plain, muted grey and black. You expect there isn’t much in the way of the original equipment on the frame, making tracking the ship itself difficult if not impossible.

The forward mounted twin laser cannons have been augmented with heavy blasters and the rear-mounted turret appears to have several additions that you can’t quite identify from your position on the ground. Impressive and exactly the kind of ship you’d expect Paz to have. Fast, powerful, and well armed. 

The ramp into the cargo bay is down and you can hear Kabodo and Dradru talking excitedly above you. 

“Astromech droids on engine control!” Kabodo’s voice is excited, full of wonder and a longing for adventure. 

“Imagine this thing in a firefight! A pursuit craft? Whew!” Dradru is just as excited but then he says, with great seriousness, “She’s going with him on this thing. Kriff.” 

“She’ll be fine, Drad. How many women in the galaxy was Father ever afraid of? Her and Mother. That’s it. She’ll be _fine_.” Kabodo sounds a bit like he’s trying to convince himself as much as his brother and it tugs at your heart. 

Moving to the bottom of the ramp you call up to the two, “You father was a smart man, Dradru. Listen to your brother.” 

“You’re here!” Kabodo comes ambling down the ramp and draws you into a fierce hug. “The ship is amazing! You’re going to love it!” 

“I’m sure I will, kiddo. Now how about you go unload that speeder while I find the captain?” 

“Captain’s right here,” comes a deep, modulated voice. Paz is standing at the top of the ramp, Dukuk and Kres with him. You feel your heart flutter and your knees get a bit wobbly. He looks huge, powerful— and very much in charge. 

“Permission to come aboard?” 

“Permission granted, Cyar’ika. Get that ass on this ship so I can show you around.” 

You imagine you probably look like a love-struck fool, given the grin on Kres’ face as he passes you on the ramp, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You are a love-struck fool for your Mando. When you told him last night that you had been waiting for him you were telling the truth. You had been waiting. Waiting for a man who made you feel the way this man does. A good man who would stand by your side because he couldn’t imagine doing anything else, because he was a love-struck fool for you in just the same way. 

You come up the ramp into the cargo bay, bright, clean and stacked with the crates from your cellar which are all secured and tied down in appropriate slots. Across the bay, to the left and the right, you see two openings leading to port and starboard engine control. Wired-in to their respective positions are two astromech droids, currently in stand-by mode. 

Paz pulls you into a keldabe kiss, “Welcome aboard, mesh’la. I missed you.” 

“It’s only been three hours— and I missed you too.” You plant a kiss on the side of his helmet, “So, this is home for the next little while, then? Does she have a name?” 

“A'den Beskaryc. It means ‘Armored Wrath’. Come on up and see the rest.” 

He leads you up a short ladder to the common areas and living spaces. A central hallway leads to a cross hall, from which you can access the fresher and passenger section on the right and the galley and lounge on the left. 

“Room for six on here, originally, but I’ve stripped out the guest quarters and used two bunks in the secondary cargo hold. Turned it into a brig for when I can’t risk the carbonite. Blasterproof and capable of immediate decompression if anyone gets out of line.” He sounds proud, and he should be. It’s an impressive lay-out. 

The galley is large enough, designed to feed six in relative comfort. Cooker, oven, chiller, it’s got all the appliances you’ll require plus plenty of storage. There was a small lounge on the port side of the kitchen, with a table and comfortable chairs plus a couch for relaxing. 

Back in the hall you can see forward to the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot’s chairs. As you step a little further down the hall you come to an intersection and Paz pulls you to the room on your right. 

“Our quarters. I hope they meet with your approval?” He’s sounding bashful and you can hear in his voice how much he wants you to be pleased, how much he wants you to be happy here. 

The bed isn’t large, but it’s plenty roomy enough for the two of you to sleep. There’s a silky coverlet in a lovely blue, several fluffy-looking pillows with covers matching, and thick silvered-fur blankets piled at the end. 

“I did some shopping while I waited for fueling to finish. I hope you like it. You look so pretty in blue, and—” He stops, rubbing the back of his neck under his helmet, looking nervous. For Maker’s sake the man is _nervous_ again. It’s unbelievably sweet and the tender feelings you have deepen more than you thought possible.

You turn and throw your arms around his neck. “I love it. I love _you_. You could have had nothing more than a cot and I’d happily spend every night on it as long as I was able to spend it with you. This?” You look over at the comfortable, luxurious nest he’s made for you. “This is more than you needed to do, but I can’t wait to see if those furs are as soft as they look.” 

His arms come around you, and he pulls you close. “I love you, too, Cyar’ika. I’m glad you like it. As soon as our guests are gone we can see just how comfortable it will be.” He leans his com down next to your ear and whispers, “I can’t wait to see you spread out on that fur, naked and ready for me." 

Leaning close to his audial you whisper back with a voice full of dark, delicious promises, "I’m always ready for you, my love.”

***

As the afternoon passes you’re busy arranging and putting away supplies. You checked the existing stores and found you’d probably be fine spending an entire month in space in relative comfort. 

Paz is spending the time doing maintenance and pre-flight checks, the Zabraks like a four part shadow tagging along. You hear your Mando patiently and carefully explain his steps as he works, answering questions with an easy tone that betrays his previous job as a trainer for his covert.

He’s a natural teacher. You can hear the enjoyment he gets from explaining and demonstrating and the pride he expresses when they grasp the lesson. You find your mind wandering to what it would be like to raise a family with him. You think of what kind of father he’d be, and are struck for a moment by a vision your mind conjures up out of thin air.

Your Mando, and your son on his lap, in the cockpit. You leaning against the doorway, a hand on your belly which is swollen and ripe with another little one who would soon arrive. He’s teaching your boy to fly, but when he sees you Paz kisses the top of the boy’s head and slides him off his armored lap, setting the autopilot and coming over to you. His hand covers yours on your belly and he holds you close— 

“Cyar'ika? Come back to us!” Paz and the boys are laughing. “Caught in a daydream?”

“I guess you could say that. Wishing on stars I haven’t seen yet, maybe,” is your cryptic reply. You hadn’t really thought of a family of your own for a very long time. Children. A husband who loves you. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a dream you have only in the darkest nights, when you’re feeling so very alone and cursing your father for the life he stole from you with his greed. 

Maybe, if you manage to make it through this, you can begin to build new dreams with Paz at your side, leaving behind the loneliness and the uncertainties and heading together into a bright future. 

If you make it through. Oh, Maker, you must. It felt so real, like a memory instead of a dream and you want to get there so that it can be just that, a precious memory of the love you’ll have for a lifetime.

You just need to make it through this.


	9. Asterism

“I think we can probably— nnnnrgh— just lift a bit more— bit more— that’s it. Hang on!” Paz’ voice floats up to you from the cargo bay followed by the sound of a pneumatic tool and some frantic ratcheting, bookended by grunts from Paz and Kres as they lever the second canister of breathable air into position while Dradru and Dukuk secure it in place. Kabodo is with you in the galley, helping to prepare a meal. 

Paz, enamored with his newly acquired younger brothers, had pulled you aside earlier and asked if it was okay if they stayed for dinner. 

“They’re still pumping water, so we have a few hours, and the guys are going to help me install the air tanks now so it’s done and we won’t need to hire droids to do it later,” he had reasoned. 

Since you were starting to find the prospect of letting go a bit daunting, you agreed. They’d been a fixture of your life since you had first bought the bar. Snot-nosed little kids, rambunctious, curious, and they had charmed you instantly. As they grew into men you had all shared in the joys and heartaches of life. More than once you had held one of them in a tight embrace as they poured out their misery, and just as often you had cracked open a bottle of ‘the good stuff’ in celebration of a success. 

You were the sister they could get advice from, the surrogate parent who would help them out of a jam, and occasionally an outright accomplice in their shenanigans. 

As much as they’re all grown men now, it’s hard to think of them at the moment as anything but the wild little ones who had a million questions and would beg you to come outside and help them build a fort or set up a football net and play a bit. Now you’re leaving them to defend against Maker knows who for Maker knows what reasons and it feels as though you’re abandoning them. 

Kriff. You’re getting sentimental again.

No, it wasn’t a fight of their choosing, but they hate the Imps and the Jedi as much as you do for their own reasons. Their home had been ripped apart many times in the war. Their father had ultimately died because of that fierfek war, even though it was years after the initial injury when he was stolen from them. This new threat is just more of the same. None of you have ever known actual peace and the idea that ‘The New Republic’ being in charge is an improvement is nothing more than a sad joke. 

A poke in your ribs brings you back to the kitchen and the dough you’re supposed to be kneading. 

“Quit daydreaming! We’re supposed to be serving dinner soon.” Kabodo is laughing, this being the kind of thing you’d usually be saying to him. 

“Okay, okay. Three minutes and it’ll be ready.” You start your rhythmic push-pull of the soft dough again, forcing yourself to pay attention to what you’re doing. 

“So what’s next?” Your assistant sets aside the marniating bantha steaks and looks at you expectantly. 

“Now you can clean and trim those greens and peel the chokeroot.” The dough has become smooth, silky, and elastic under your hands so you fashion it into a ball and set about dividing it up and pulling it out into oval flatbreads that you’ll cook quickly in a dry pan, then pop into the oven to keep warm along with the mashed chokeroot. The steaks and the greens you’ll do at the last minute since they won’t take long to cook. 

With the pan for the bread heating and your able sous-chef busy you take a moment to tidy the little kitchen and set the table as Kabodo gets the chokeroot into the pot and sets the greens in cold water. Returning to the stove you start on the bread and the fantastic aroma fills the space. 

You can hear the work continuing in the cargo bay, the sounds fainter now that they’ve moved towards the mid section under the deck. They must be looking at the water tanks now, meaning soon they’d be up for dinner. 

“If that root’s soft you can drain it and get it mashed. There’s some bantha butter in the chiller and use some of the dried pepper in the green bottle.”

“How much butter?“ Kabodo is peering into the pot like a sorcerer making a potion, mashing the roots and sprinkling in salt and the peppers you asked him to use. 

"Keep adding spoonfuls and mashing until it’s really smooth, then put it in the baking bowl and add a bit more of the butter on top before you put it in the oven." 

"I hope they hurry, I’m hungry!" 

"Me, too. Tell you what, get that in the oven and then go tell them to get washed up and presentable. I’ll finish the greens and get the steaks in the broiler." 

***

Dinner was far from a sombre affair. The food was delicious, the company relaxed and happy to be together. Your Mando sat with you a bit, but you shooed him off with his plate you’d been keeping warm in the oven.

"Eat, please. While it’s still fresh and hot. We’ll wait to open the drinks until you’re done." 

"I won’t be long.” Leaning in for a keldabe kiss he continues in a whisper, “I want to talk more about our domestic arrangements soon, Cyar'ika. This is no way for us to build a life together." 

You’re slightly confused by his words, but shrug it off. You think he’s being a bit silly, since you didn’t expect that you’d be doing all the cooking or cleaning but it’s never phased you to be responsible for domestic chores. Food needs to be cooked and things need to be washed and if it requires doing and it’s in front of you, you’ve always been of the mind that you might as well get it done. You thought it adorable that he’d be so worried about you feeling 'put upon’. 

So you give him a dazzling smile and whisper back, "I will gladly discuss any arrangement you might want to make with me as long as we can discuss it wrapped in furs and each other’s arms." 

"Deal.”

***

After a few glasses of wine, and some conversation where all of you pointedly ignore that the time for goodbyes is closing in, the pumps shut off on the water intake. The silence seems somehow louder than the missing background noise was. 

It’s time. 

Paz hangs back at the top of the ramp after he exchanged hearty handshakes and backslaps while you now hug the brothers in turn at the bottom. No one wants to let go, and even Dukuk is weepy-eyed. 

“Look after each other. I’m coming back, okay?” 

Kresas grabs you in one last tight hug. “If you’re not back in six months I’m turning it into a dance club,” he whispers hoarsely. 

The speeder taxi arrives so they all pile in, and you watch them, waving, until they’re out of sight. Turning back up the ramp you head to Paz. 

He holds his arms out and you glady step into his embrace. “We have a stop to make on the day side, then we’re off. We’ll get to our first jump about three hours out of atmo. Once we’re in hyperspace we’ll get some sleep. The droids can handle the piloting from there.” 

“Our first destination is where, exactly? You haven’t been very forthcoming” you scold him teasingly.

“We’re going to meet with the one who started all of this and try to get some answers, but first we’re going to see Greef Karga to pick up some more jobs and confirm the location of our beroya. He’s still taking work, and Karga knows where he is.”

“How much does this Guild Agent know?” 

“Two days ago I’d have said he knows more than either of us, but given what you’ve just gone through I’d say we’re all holding equally important pieces of the puzzle. It’s time we start putting them together.” 

“Then let’s get going. I’ve only got half a cycle before Kres has threatened to turn my place into an inner-rim style club and he’s just the kind of Zabrak to take his revenge on me in such a cruel way for leaving him in charge.” 

Paz’ laughter booms through the cargo bay as he leads you forward to the ladder. 

***

He’s a good pilot. Flying a ship through atmo isn’t the same as flying through space. Air may seem ephemeral when you’re walking or cruising along in a speeder, but when you’re slamming through it at several times the speed of sound you realize just how much air is like an ocean, with waves, currents, and eddies to slow you down and knock you about. Repulsors work well to buffer the worst of it, but it’s still riding a wild river. 

You’re strapped securely into the co-pilot’s seat, just behind and slightly to the right of Paz. The Astromech droids in Engine Control are carefully adjusting power to keep things smooth as Paz guides the ship to the current day side.

You’ve never seen the sun rise this way before. It’s breathtaking, the light rising fast and the colours of the sky blooming like bright ink spilling into black paper. Crimson, fucsia, orange, and gold give way to deep blue that slowly fades as you drop altitude on approach to the Guild’s dockyard. 

“There may be Imp agents, maybe Jetii, too. Stay here and don’t go near the ramp. I’ll be right back.” 

You expect he’ll be a while talking to the Guild Agent but the hatch opens a mere fifteen minutes later as you’re sitting on the couch in the lounge, a blaster in hand, trying not to give in to the urge to pace nervously. 

“Cyar’ika! Where are you?” Paz calls out to you from the ramp so you’ll know it’s him and not try to blast his head off when he comes up. 

“I’m in the lounge! You’re back awfully f—” The words die on your lips as you see a stranger with him. Getting over the initial shock of an unexpected face, you realize this must be Greef Karga. He had the open and jovial air of a man who enjoyed life and was used to being obeyed, carrying himself with an air of easy authority. The smile that bloomed on his face was genuinely warm and mildly flirtatious, but not seriously so. His eyes, though, scrutinized you and the surroundings with a sharp glint of curiosity and caution.

“Hello,” you say holding out your hand. “You must be Karga.” 

“Please! Greef. Call me Greef. Mando here says you tangled with the Imps?” He looks you up and down, appraising you. 

“Not exactly. I went digging into what happened here and my contacts started disappearing. Everything that happened here has been vanished, or was never recorded in the first place. The amount of trouble that would take to pull off—” You shrug. “I have to figure they’re going to come looking to tie up any loose ends.” 

“You’re probably right. No one is looking for you yet through any official channels. Yet. If you’re right that will change once others get wind of it. It’s one thing to hide what’s happening on one planet, it’s another to be actively looking for someone, involving people in many places, and hope to avoid notice.” He gives you a pointed look. 

“Yes, well— I wasn’t exactly asking around at the market. I assume Mando’s told you how we met?”

“Your side business? Yes. I’m impressed that you were feeding him accurate intel, yet I’d never heard of you. I can see why, though. It wouldn’t be hard for you to get anyone to spill their secrets— or keep yours.” He quirked an eyebrow at you, and grinned. 

Paz steps past Karga, a growl just audible through his com, coming to stand beside you with an arm about your waist. The Guild Agent chuckles, having provoked the answer to the question he’d had but didn’t ask. “Relax, Mando. Just being friendly.”

“Be less friendly.” The note of jealousy in Paz’ voice stirs a slight irritation in you, but also sends a thrill rushing between your legs. 

“You’re a very different man from your friend, Mando.” Karga’s grin widened. 

“I have different priorities— as you can see.” His hand slips to your waist and squeezes, a gesture as much for you as it is for him. 

Karga strides over to the table and sits, turning to you, “Tell me everything. Every last detail and everything you know about your contacts.” His face is suddenly serious, expectant. 

Turning to Paz you shoot him a questioning look, and he responds with a nod, “Karga will ‘intercept’ any bounties related to you. In exchange he needs the information you have and five percent more on my jobs.” 

“Interception only goes so far. What’s the next step? If the Guild gets a bounty you can bet there’s others out looking, too.” You take a seat across from the Agent and Paz settles next to you. 

“Then we make you disappear— we’ll hide you where no one can find you until this mess is finally cleaned up. The New Republic might not care that much about what goes on out here, but if the Imps get too loud they’ll be quieted quickly.” Greef leaned back and intertwined his fingers behind his head, “I have inner-rim contacts, and so does your Mando, here. We’ll find somewhere safe where the Imps wouldn’t dare to go.” 

You file that away for later, but make no outward show of surprise. “Then I suppose I should start at the beginning. A Mando walks into a bar…”

***

The telling of the whole thing takes about forty-five minutes, and Paz excuses himself about fifteen minutes in to get the rest of the wine from earlier and pour out three glasses. Karga is a sharp man, asking questions to elicit more detail and circling back to things when a new point brings up a new question. 

“So you were paying them in untraceable funds, through a series of anonymizing services and re-shippers?” Karga is shaking his head and looking at you with admiration. 

“We sometimes have to move money into embargoed zones. Lots of people have relatives caught on the wrong side of a new border, or trapped behind a trade dispute. Few around here make enough for whatever passes for government to bother with them, and no one really cares if you’re sending fifty credits to your cousin.” 

“But you’re still worried they’re going to find you.” He raises an eyebrow as he turns to you. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

“If you were in my position what would you think?” Now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow. 

“Fair enough.” Karga rises and holds out an arm to Paz. “You have a deal. Clear those two pucks and there will be more waiting. I intend to keep the two of you busy and out of the way.”

Paz stands, they clasp arms and the Mando leads Karga back down to the cargo bay. You can hear them speaking quietly for a few moments before Paz enters the ship again and the ramp closes. You stand and stretch, cleaning away the glasses and stowing the bottle. If you’re going to leave you can’t have anything loose flying about. 

You meet Paz in the hall and you both head to the cockpit to strap in. 

“Karga is sending a message to the beroya to meet us at our first job, we should meet up with him once we’ve got the quarry.” Paz is performing his pre-flight checks and you can hear the astromech droids beeping busily to each other from the rear of the ship as they complete their own tasks.

Checks over, he turns his seat to face you, “We’re on our way in a moment, but before we do— I— When we’re up and the droids can mostly take over— I want to play a bit with you. Can we?” 

You can feel the flush rising in your cheeks with the memory of the last time he wanted to ‘play’. “Yes, please,” you say softly, almost demurely, your breath stolen by the electric buzzing of anticipation along your nerves. 

“Then let’s get going,” he says, his voice low as he turns back to the console. “I finally have you completely to myself and I’m not wasting a moment of the time we have.” 

***

When the sky has gone from blue to black and Nevarro has shrunk to a pinpoint behind the ship he releases his seat restraints and turns his chair towards you again. 

You wait in silent anticipation, knowing that he wants your willing submission and wanting to give him exactly what he wants. What he needs.

“Unstrap,” he commands. “I’ll be right back." 

As he walks by he stops for a moment, kneels down beside you and leans in for a keldabe kiss with his gloved hand gently cupping your cheek, "If anything, anything, is too much or not to your liking— if I ever really hurt you— say 'Nevarro’ and we stop immediately. Same goes for me. We should have— _I_ should have made that clear last time. I love you, Cyar'ika, and I only want for your pleasure. Understood?" 

"I trust you— completely. Now more than ever and I love you, Paz, with everything I’ve got. I’m yours, only and entirely yours." 

He stands then and his thumb brushes your cheek. His posture straightens, and his hand slips slowly down to come about your throat, "I’ll be right back. Stay here." 

Your breath catches, heart pounding with the anticipation, and you meet his gaze through your lashes, nodding submissively.

You hear him head to your quarters and the faint sound of a drawer opening and closing. When he returns he’s holding a narrow length of the same fabric used to make the coverlet, about 2 metres by half a metre. 

"Stand,” he commands. You obey immediately and gracefully, eliciting a low hum of pleasure from his com. 

“Clothes off. Slowly. I want to watch,” he says, sitting down in the pilot’s seat where it’s turned to face into the open space of the cockpit. 

Slowly you disrobe, inexplicably shy but at the same time incredibly turned on and wanting to please. His visor is fixed on you, watching intently as you lift your shirt and your breasts tumble free of the fabric as you pull it over your head and toss it to the side. If it’s a show he wants, you’ll give him the best you can.

You trail your hands along your stomach, up, up to your breasts, lavishing attention on them and letting your hands cup and stroke the soft flesh. You make a display of yourself, fingers running over your nipples as they peak and pebble in the cool air. 

When you reach for your waistband he says, “Turn around to do that, mesh’la. Let me see you bent over.” 

Turning, you unbutton and unzip your trousers and then bend at the hips as you skim them down to your ankles. You’re entirely exposed to his view, and you know he can see how wet you are already. 

“Stay like that for a moment,” his voice rougher than it was a minute ago. “You’re already so wet, Cyar’ika. Is that because you enjoy pleasing me? Obeying me?” 

“Yes—” Your breathing is heavier, your heart pounding just a little harder. You stretch your legs just a little more to display yourself better for his scrutiny. If anyone else had asked this of you, you would have objected and probably scolded them for treating you like a piece of meat. But, Paz? You can’t pin down why, exactly, but even though he’s in control— even though he’s directing you as if you were a toy— it feels like worship. As if he’s taking control so he can venerate you properly— demonstrating his devotion in the safe harbour of your submission. 

“Stand up and come here.” 

You stand, step out of your pants and walk over to him. You stand in front of him, close, and again subtly do your best to display yourself to him without being crude. He brings out something in you that you weren’t aware even had a place; a desire to please, to be beautiful in his eyes alone, to be _pleasing_. 

“Kneel.” One word, and that’s all it takes. You sink to your knees and turn your face up to him, unable to keep the blissed out smile from curving your lips. You can see the bulge at his fly and it just makes you smile wider. 

Paz holds up the strip of fabric, “I’m going to put this on you. Keep your eyes shut, mesh’la.” 

You give him a nod in response and he wraps the silky cloth around your eyes and ties it securely, tugging gently at it to make sure it won’t slip. 

You hear the release of his helmet, and him setting it on the console. Next is the sound of his fly and then he stands and you hear his pants drop. He sits again, and his warm hand is cupping your cheek. 

“Do you promise to be good for me? Will you do what I say, Cyar’ika?” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

“Stand, mesh’la. Slowly.” You obey without hesitation, standing up slowly and waiting for his next command. 

“Turn around, Cyar’ika.” His voice is deeper still, lust and love colouring his tone. 

With your back to him a shiver of anticipation rushes over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

“Relax, mesh’la. I’m going to guide you to sit, just relax. I’ve got you.” His warm hands rest on your hips and gently guide you back a step until your calves are flush with his shins. He then lifts you ever so slightly, so you’re standing exactly where he wants you. Guiding you back, one hand leaves your hip and as he slowly brings you high into his lap, and you find out why as the hot tip of him nudges at your entrance and finds purchase. The moment he’s seated he brings his hand back to your hip and uses all his strength to hold you up. 

“Now, Cyar’ika, you need to obey me. I want you to sit, like a good girl, nice and still for me, yes?” He lowers you slowly, your slick dripping down on his cock already, letting him slip inside easily. “You’re going to sit nice and still for me and we’re— ahhhh— we’re going to talk a bit while I play.” 

The sensation of him filling you so glacially slow is pure fantastical torture. It just goes on and on, and you can’t bite back the whimper that leaves your lips. 

“Shhhh, mesh’la. I know— I know. You can be a good girl for me, though?” 

“Yesss— I— I can be—” He slips past a particularly delicious spot just then, stealing your words and replacing them with a moan. 

You can feel him staring at his cock splitting you open, his breath hitching as he slips in the last inch and he just holds you there, keeping you still. Then he releases his hold on your hips for a moment and pulls your thighs apart and over his own. He sits up just slightly and brings his lips to your ear, “Lean back— I won’t let you fall.” 

He lays back and you follow. You feel so secure in his arms, leaning against his massive chest, his face buried in your neck. His breathing stutters when he moves you ever so slightly to seat you properly. Once he’s got you still again he exhales slowly and starts to caress you gently. Your thighs, stomach, hips, breasts, neck— his hands are everywhere and so lovingly gentle. You sink into it and begin to breathe deep and slow along with him, feeling his rhythms of breath and heartbeat everywhere. It’s at your back, in the flutters in his wrists against your skin, inside you where he’s buried deep. 

His hands cease their explorations for a moment and his arms come around you, holding you tight. “Cyar’ika, you’re being so good for me, so trusting. You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes, I would,” you whisper back to him. “I mean it— really mean it— when I say I’m yours. I don’t think I understood that before, even though it’s been true for a long time.”

His arms release you and he continues his explorations, trailing his fingers over your nipples with feathery touches. “When Karga flirted with you today— I acted like a fool—” You move to protest but he cuts you off. “No— mesh’la, don’t soothe my bruised ego. I was foolish.” 

His fingers dip down and run lightly along your sensitive lips, tracing how he’s stretching you open, over and over as he talks. The feeling of being stuffed full, the exquisite pressure of him, it’s almost too much. You’re whimpering now and then and you can’t get a full breath. 

“I have no right to act possessively with you— I don’t own you—” He slowly brings his hand back up to your lower belly and presses gently so he can feel himself inside you. “I shouldn’t doubt that you are mine by your own choice— I know you want no one else. I feel—” His words are driving you wild and you feel yourself clench involuntarily, drawing a small gasp from him as your muscles bear down. “I feel it when you’re in my arms, when I’m inside you, when you— when you’re so good for me.” 

His lips are on your cheek, leaving a small trail of kisses. “I’ve wanted no one else this way, thought of no one else this way—” His thumb slides down over the hood of your aching clit and just stays there, almost no pressure, barely touching— but the relief of that ghostly touch almost has you sobbing. You’re fluttering around him and he’s gentling you with his words, shushing you like a nervous animal and kissing you tenderly. 

“It’s okay, Cyar’ika. Shhhh— I know. You’re being so good. Just a little longer, my sweet, perfect girl.” He gives a gentle stroke with his thumb and you swear you are about to come right then and there. You can feel your slick flooding down his shaft and dripping over his sack, and you can’t help but throw your head back against him, moaning. You’re clenching, needing friction so desperately. Your mind screaming to just _move_ and stop this endless anticipation. 

But you stay still. For _him_ you’ll be good. You’ll endure any torture, even one so brilliantly sharp and exasperating as this, if it pleases him. 

“That’s right, mesh’la. You sit on my cock so well, such a good girl. Seeing you stretched open on me, that perfect, pink sweetness— so wet for me.” He swipes at your clit with his thumb, just once, and you’re sobbing for real now. 

“Such pretty sounds you make, sweet girl. Hearing you cry for me, when you’re stuffed full of me— Cyar’ika it burns me to hear you cry like that.” His lips meet yours in a sweet kiss— oh, the sweetest kiss. “You’re being so good and trying so h—hard.” His voice is almost hypnotic, soothing you and making you feel like you can bear this endless tension, for him. All for _him_. 

“I can’t bear the thought of anyone else— it’s only you that I see in my dreams.” His warm, strong hands cup your breasts, massaging gently, stroking, pinching your nipples delicately. “It’s only ever been you that I want this way, wrapped around me, in my arms.” He sighs, holds you tight, puts his lips to your ear. “I can’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing the perfection of you— I shouldn’t— shouldn’t be jealous—” He slowly, achingly slowly, grinds into you. Pushing you down on him as he presses in further, his voice becoming unsteady.

“Tell me again, mesh’la. Tell me with those pretty lips who you belong to—” he breaks off with a groan as another wave of contractions pulse around him. 

“You! Only you. Please— I want it to be only you. Always. Paz— never anyone but you.” You’re babbling, but there’s no doubt that you mean every word. You really can’t imagine anyone else making you feel this way. About him. For him. You knew a long time ago, you knew and you can’t deny that now. 

One hand makes its way to your throat, encircling it and resting there. Your breathing calms and you relax completely against him, your mind quieting as you focus on his control. He becomes still inside you, solid and unyielding. His voice, when it’s breathed into your ear, is strong and steady again. 

“Cyar’ika, my pretty girl, do you _really_ mean that? Is that what you really want?” 

“Yes, I want it more than I want breath. More than life. I ached for you, for so long, and I can’t do that again.”

You don’t understand why but tears of relief are springing to your eyes and slipping down your cheek. He kisses them away and whispers, “I don’t want to keep anything from you, hold anything back. I want— I want to share everything I have— I am— with you.” 

He starts to move, almost imperceptibly, and it’s sweet agony. “When you’re in my arms— when I’m inside you— when we’re about to sleep— working beside you— it feels like h—home.” Hot kisses bathe your neck and he moans. “Can’t live without you— need you—”

It must have been only minutes but it seemed to drag on for hours, his hand on your throat, his cock barely brushing your walls as he moved so frustratingly and wonderfully slow. “It’s perfect— the way you feel. Everything about you— made for me.” Paz nips at your earlobe, and you shudder— he throbs within you— and his swollen head brushes that one spot that’s been dying for stimulation, that’s been wanting touch to the point of aching dully—

Out of nowhere a fierce and tearing orgasm builds, crests and crashes in the blink of an eye. You hear Paz growl deep in his chest as the first contraction grips him and then he’s wrapping you safely in his arms, his lips everywhere they can reach as he calls to you, holding you close. He’s holding you against the storm that rages, ripping agonized cries and sobs from you as it borders on pain, pouring out his heart to you and you can’t tell what he’s saying— you can’t understand the words but you _know_ — 

As you quiet he begins to stroke and soothe you again. He’s somehow deeper within you, as if your orgasm opened you to him fully. “Mesh’la, you come apart so beautifully— like you surrender to me.” His hand on your lower belly gently holds you, feeling the fading contractions deep inside you, and again his own hardness piercing you. 

“Can you bear it a little longer, Cyar'ika?” 

“Y—yes” You’re panting, but you can feel your heart beginning to quiet and you never want this feeling of being filled by him to end. 

He kisses your temple. “That’s my good girl. We’ll sit and we’ll watch the stars a while. Then I want to take you to bed, to our bed— wrap you in furs— slide inside you again—” A moan escapes him and you feel his cock throb. 

“—but first, we’ll sit and watch the stars.” 


	10. Asterism

The ship is being guided by the nav and the droids towards your jump point, a steady underhum from the engines and other systems just at the edge of perception. The entire universe has become nothing more than you and Paz. His arms around you. His broad chest at your back. His hot, hard length within you. His breath a warm breeze across your neck. His voice in your ear. 

“See? See how well you take me?” He grinds into you, slowly. So, so slowly. “So eager to please me— obey me— so pliant— my sweet, sweet girl.” 

“Never dreamed it could be this way,” you sigh. “Thought about you— dreamed about you— so many nights.” Your back arches as he runs his hands over your breasts, a moan of pleasure from Paz rumbling up from his chest. “Never thought I’d have— _could_ have-— you like this. I’d do anything to please you. No one ever made me feel this way— this safe." 

You feel him throb within you, hear his intake of breath at your confession. He pushes into you, as deep as he can go, and holds himself there as his cock jumps in time to his excited heartbeat.

"Mesh'la, you don’t know what you do to me.” His voice is choked and barely above a whisper. “Every moment I’m inside you— I’m aching to fill you— fill you up. You get so _wet_ — my oasis in the desert— burn me with your heat— want to drown in you.”

His hand slides along your belly and slips down to cup your mound, his fingers parted around himself where his hardness splits you open. 

“Take my hand, Cyar'ika,” Paz whispers. “Take my hand and show me— show me how you please yourself. Show me how you caress yourself when you’re aching and alone and dreaming of me." 

Your hand drifts to cover his, languidly drawing his fingers upward to your aching bundle of nerves. You’re sensitive still from your last orgasm and your touch is feather light for the moment. Threading your fingers through those of his other hand you draw them across your flesh, exploring and caressing your own curves. 

Nothing else exists but this. The pressure of him inside you. The sighs and moans in your ear. His hands entwined with yours on your skin. The beat of heated blood rushing in his veins and yours. Your body responds without will, without intent, a fire building in you. Whimpers leave your lips and seem to hang in the air, suspended in time and space, joined by the quiet words falling from Paz’ mouth as he holds nothing back.

"Cyare. Beloved— oh, you can’t possibly know just how _much_ —” His lips leave a hot trail of kisses along your shoulder. “Just being near you would have been enough— would’ve spent my life alone— just visiting you now and then— just to talk with you. See you smile. There’s been no one— for so long— I didn’t know— I— I was waiting for you— I was waiting—” 

It steals your breath and speeds your heart and you can reply with nothing but breathy moans and whimpers.

Your fingers and his dance in a keenly pleasurable rhythm across your clit, and Paz begins to rock into you gently in time with your motions. You bring your hand, and his, slowly up to your neck and lay your head back, exposing your throat to him. You untangle your hand from his and slip it back behind his neck, needing to anchor yourself. Needing to steady yourself against the deep ache that is building along your hips, still on the far horizon, yet even now it’s almost overwhelming. 

Paz slips his hand along your jaw and turns your face to his. You must look wrecked, eyes wild and cheeks flushed, lips parted and panting. He slips his hand around your throat, just holding you there for a moment— just a moment.

Then he gently squeezes and your eyes roll back as everything below your waist begins to shake uncontrollably. He tightens his grip just a little more and a guttural moan flies from your mouth. You can feel yourself clench impossibly tight around him, almost painfully. Your spine seems to convulse all on its own and your hips buck against your hand. His grip tightens just a little more, just enough that you can feel the world slip— just a bit, can feel the breath leave you with almost no way to come back. Almost. 

Lips brush yours in a tender kiss, juxtaposed with a grip that grows stronger as Paz’ kisses grow more gentle and the raging, electric tension builds and builds. Your grip at the back of his neck is desperate, clawing, sure to leave a mark and each time your nails scrape on his skin he growls like an animal— yet there is nothing but sweet softness in the way his mouth flutters against yours. 

His thrusts are deeper now, your own hips bucking wildly against him, wanting more, deeper, harder. You’re so close— this is so much and everything you think you may have ever wanted, even though you didn’t know you wanted it. 

“I will never want another— Cyar’ika, tell me you feel the same— that you’re mine— always—” His words against your lips speed your heart even further. 

“Yes— Paz— Only yours— Always— A—always!”

He releases his hold on your throat and finally kisses you deeply as you moan into his mouth, coming undone around him as he rocks into you, his breath and yours mingling. The blood slams back into your head and the air into your lungs— it’s like coming alive for the first time, like being reborn in a burst of starlight, delivered into his arms— into his heart. 

Whispered words of love and devotion pass back and forth between you as your hips slow and your fingers still, the aftershocks making the two of you gasp and writhe together. Gradually you come back down and he begins to stroke you again as he had before, trying to ease the last tension from you, writing declarations of his love for you over your skin with his fingertips. 

When you’re still again, and your panting has quieted a little, he buries his nose in your hair to ask quietly, “Can I take you to bed now, mesh’la? Would you like that?” 

You turn your head into his neck and nod, a sob escaping you as the roiling tensions and emotions within you seek release. “Please— yes,” comes your breathless reply. 

“Shhhhh— I’ll take care of you, mesh’la. Hush, now. I’ve got you— I won’t ever let you go.” Kisses fall across your cheek and his arms around you are lifting you off him, both of you moaning at the slow drag of his throbbing, aching cock as he pulls out gently. 

Turning you to sit sideways on his lap he cuddles you close for a few moments, your arms automatically reaching around his broad shoulders and clinging to him like a life preserver in a stormy sea. 

He stands, lifting you up to carry you with your head still tucked between his neck and shoulder. Again you’re struck by his sheer strength, the way he doesn’t even strain with your weight but walks with confidence and ease through the doorway and turns to take you to your quarters. 

Paz lowers you gently onto the bed, kissing you softly when you whimper as he lets you go. He must have spread out the furs when he came in here to get the blindfold, the luxurious softness of the plush pile almost enveloping you. He lays beside you, his arms coming around you again, moulding your body to his.

Lips meet lips and hands explore lazily. You give yourself over to the feeling of adoring and being adored, of safety and love. Even though you know he must be aching and desperate for you still, Paz remains totally unhurried, his touch as light and loving as his kisses. 

“I love you, Cyare.” His voice is light, soft, and it makes you feel like you’re flying. 

“I love you too, so much—” 

“You’re everything I ever wanted. All I ever wanted.” He kisses you deeply, and when he’s had his fill of your lips he rests his forehead against yours. “You’re smart, sharp like a beskad. Brave beyond belief. Loyal. Beautiful.” He sighs and seems to hesitate for just a second, and then—

“Marry me, Cyare. Say the vows with me— Be mine and let me prove I’m worthy of being yours.” He’s shaking, holding you tighter like he’s afraid you’ll disappear or slip out of his grasp. “I want to share everything with you— always. I want to— I want you to see me, be with me— I don’t want to be apart from you. Not in any way.” His voice trembles and he blows out a breath. 

Your hands come up to cup his face and draw his lips to your own. “Yes— oh, yes,” you reply softly and kiss him. You knew from the first time he touched you— maybe long before that, even— that this man was for you and there wouldn’t be another who could measure up. 

You know that even though it isn’t common, it’s not forbidden for a Mandalorian to marry a non-Mando. You have enough knowledge of the culture to know that you’ll be his equal in all things, his partner in life and love, raising your children as Mando’ade together and doing what you can to contribute to the wellbeing of the tribe as a family. 

“When?” 

“Now, Cyare? I haven’t changed my mind about you since the day I walked into your place and first saw you, standing at the bar and laughing with Kres over something. I think I was lost from the start.”

“Yes. Now, please. I have waited and waited and if I don’t have to wait anymore—” Your words are cut off with a gasp as he shifts his position and the hot, hard head of his cock brushes against your slick entrance. Without thinking you angle your hips to take him into you. He groans, his breath slamming out of him as he can’t help himself sliding inside. When he’s as deep as he can go, your leg thrown over his hips and his hand on your ass, he captures your mouth. 

Rocking into you softly, almost not moving at all, he whispers to you, “Like this? Are you sure?” 

“Y— yes, this is perfect. This feels so right— Make me yours forever— Be mine always, my love.”

“Say the words after me, I’ll repeat them with you—” 

As you say your vows you feel every inch of him, every heartbeat, each flutter of breath. You know it’s the same for him. Nothing but the two of you, nothing but your promise and your love and the feeling that this is what you were actually meant for, to love one another— to be as one.

_“Mhi solus tome._

_(We are one together.)_

_Mhi solus dhar'tome._

_(We are one when parted.)_

_Mhi me'dinui an._

_(We share all.)_

_Mhi ba'juri verde._

_(We will raise warriors.)”_

The last words leave your lips and his fingers slip to the edge of your blindfold. “I love you,” he whispers and then pulls it free of your eyes, kissing each lid in turn and then—

When you open your eyes to see the face of your husband for the first time— when you see his eyes gazing into yours— the smile curving his full lips which are bracketed by a soft, neat beard— the laugh lines and the crinkles at his lids which tell you how he is surely a man who truly enjoys laughing— You’re overwhelmed with love. This face, his handsome face, it’s yours and yours alone. He will give this to no one else but you and your children. You feel as though you dreamed his face before, as if it’s the face you’d been searching for in crowds for your whole life and never finding. 

You can’t stop smiling, even as the tears start. You’d been alone so long, thinking you were meant to be alone. You weren’t. You were lonely— so lonely you couldn’t fathom not feeling that way, and in this moment you know that there is nothing that will tear you from him but your own will. You’re not going to be lonely anymore. In his eyes you see home, the future, and all the love he has for you. 

Eyes locked on one another you begin to move together and the connection between you feels deeper than ever before. It’s like an ocean and lightning and moonlight all at once. He cradles your head between his forearms on the pillow, his forehead to yours, bliss written over every inch of him. You twist your hips to meet his every thrust, wrapping your legs around his hips. Panting moans and small cries of pleasure from the two of you mingling into a symphony that rings in your ears as your limbs start to tingle and burn, as your muscles tense and your eyes fight to focus.

His hand falls to your hip, adjusting you ever so slightly and then he’s stroking against that wonderful place within you that makes you tremble and pray that time stops so this feeling never ends— 

You feel him grow harder, fill you even more— but what sets you alight is that you can see the pleasure crest in his eyes as you call his name, calling for him to come deep within you, giving you everything he has to give. Paz stiffens, and the fire rages in you as you flutter around him and nothing more can be done to stop the terrifyingly deep orgasm that’s spilling over you, your walls milking him as the first spasms of his cock rock the both of you, your lips crashing together as there are no more words, just him and you and your total surrender to each other. 

When you’re spent, when there’s nothing left but kisses and laughter through your shared tears of relief and joy, he doesn’t leave you and you’re thankful because right now you couldn’t bear it. You want him as close as he can be, you want to feel every fading pulse and twitch as your blood cools and your minds quiet. 

Settling against each other you burrow deeper into the furs beneath you and Paz pulls the others around you. Oh, Maker— this is bliss. 

You lay your head over his heart, “I love you, riduur.” 

A kiss is pressed to the top of your head. “And I love you, my riduur,” he purrs, sleepily. 

You doze together, now and then kissing and nipping at one another’s flesh, basking in the lazy warmth of your bed.

“You do know how to spoil me rotten, you know. If I had known this is what it was like to be your wife I’d have thrown myself at you long ago.” 

“This is only the beginning, mesh’la. I have a lot to make up for, and you give me so, so much when you let me wrap my hands around that pretty throat, when you let me play.”

“What do you have to make up for?” You trail kisses along his chest, and his hand fists in your hair.

“Not telling you I loved you sooner. I wasted so much time on being afraid of what I was feeling, what I felt from you.” He sighs and tilts your head up to look you in the eye. Your lips meet and then tongues tangle for a moment. 

“Well, I like it when you play— when you—” You find yourself uncharacteristically bashful, unable to do anything but blush and smile as an aching rush throbs around his cock, still half-hard inside you. 

“I don’t ever want to harm you— damage you— but I think I would like to hurt you a little bit now and then, mesh'la.” His words are quiet and calm, his hands wandering a little to caress you here and there, shivers of pleasure dancing across your skin. “Would you like me to hurt you— now and then— just a little bit?” He presses a soft kiss to your temple and waits for your answer, hands still wandering gently and lightly over your curves. 

You can feel the blush rise, and the chuckle that comes from him as he kisses along your neck and across your shoulder tell you it’s more than evident to him, as well. Nodding, you find yourself wanting to hide your face, unable to control this inexplicable shyness.

Paz turns your face to him, his lips meeting yours tenderly. When he pulls back he doesn’t let go of your cheek, and sets his forehead against yours. 

“Don’t— Please don’t hide from me.” He kisses you again, his gaze softening. “You are my riduur, and I am yours. ‘We share all’. I won’t touch you if it’s to harm you, but I think you want this— like I want this.” 

“Yes. Paz— I want this. I want you to hurt me, a little bit. Now and then. I— please, I—” You feel overwhelmed, exposed, but not afraid. 

“Mesh’la,” he says, stroking your cheek. “When we’re ready we’ll know. We won’t until it’s right and when it is I’ll make it so good for you, Cyare. I’ll make you cry so prettily—” 

You’re lost in each other again, making love slowly and with reverence for the bond you share, and when it’s over you finally slip into sleep, truly spent and completely content. 

***

You wake a few hours later to a quiet alert coming from the com on the wall. You’ve arrived at your destination and the droids have everything on standby, waiting for Paz to finalize the jump into hyperspace. 

Disentangling yourselves you find you can’t keep your lips off each other. Maybe you’re just drunk on lust but every time you look at him and think ‘my husband’ you want to kiss him again. 

Laughing, Paz finally pulls away, “We’re going to be late if we keep this up. Now let’s go shower and once we’re in hyperspace we should have something to eat and talk about when we’re going to tell everyone.” He pulls you onto your stomach and delivers a light slap to your bottom. 

Your eyes widen, and you know he’s caught the smile on your face. Paz grins a wicked little grin and then his hand is coming down on your plush cheeks with enough force to knock the breath from you and make you squeal. 

“Is that supposed to make me want to behave? If you’re going to do that when I’m bad I might just be bad a lot more often,” you giggle. 

“That’s your reward, mesh’la.” He grabs a handful of you and squeezes. “So will you behave and get up and come have a shower with your husband?” 

“Well, if _that’s_ the way it’s going to be I don’t see myself having much of a choice. So— Yes, Husband, your wife will get up out of this wonderful bed and dutifully follow you to the shower.” 

Paz’ laughter rings through the ship and it’s the best sound in the world. 

***

The droids have done their calculations without fault, and the jump into hyperspace is smooth. Once the wavering lights are streaking past the cockpit window Paz unbuckles his harness and turns his chair to you as you’re unbuckling your own. 

“So, who do we tell first?” He cocks an eyebrow at you and you’re marveling over how expressive he is. Oh, Maker, he can’t hide anything.

“Well, we’re about to go meet up with your beroya friend. I suppose he’d probably figure it out on his own if we’re going to spend any time together.” 

“Hmmm, yes. And then?” 

“Who do _you_ want to tell first?” 

“I think your brothers. I’ll send a message to my own family, and we’ll see many of them when we visit my cousin. They’ll want to plan a party for us, but I think that will need to wait— for now.” 

The reminder of what lies ahead, of what has passed and all that led you here, sobers you both. 

“I haven’t spoken with my parents in a very long time, but I’m going to send them a holo when I can. We’re not close and haven’t been for so long that I don’t think we ever will be again, but I want them to know. I think my mother will be happy for me.” 

“I’m sorry, Cyare. I wish—” 

You cut him off, “No, my love. It’s not— I made my peace with it. I found my family on Nevarro. I found it with you, too. I’m not missing out. I have more love than most people can even dream of.” 

He stands and comes to kneel at your feet, his head in your lap. “I meant what I said, that I want the chance to prove myself worthy of being your husband. The games we play— the submission— I know it’s not _just_ a game. It’s a gift you give to me— that trust. The way you give yourself over to me— open everything to me— all of it mine for the taking? I promise you that I will do everything in my power to be worthy of something so precious.” 

A calm settles over the two of you as the understanding of the balance between you is cemented. 

His dominance is by your grace alone and he belongs to you, body and soul, as you belong to him. 

There will be no need to hide, or fear the darkest things seeing the light of day. You will not, either of you, need to stand alone against the universe. 

_Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dhar'tome._

You will build a life together, build your own clan, be part of something larger. There will be much to celebrate, you hope, as the years pass. 

_Mhi me'dinui an. Mhi ba'juri verde._

You stare out the view screen, stroking your husband’s head in your lap as he holds on to you. The future is there for the taking, but for now you’ll look to the next few weeks and hope that the stars align to keep you both safe. 


	11. Asterism - Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of smut. Nothing explicit this time but I am SO making it up to you in the next chapter. A graphic description of breakfast. The Child being freakin’ adorable. Paz being soft and sweet. Din being a goddamn awkward bucket-head. Just a fun chapter with a bit of action and a lot of domesticity and a touch of angst. A pinch.

“So your idea of working together is me sitting around and being babysat by your droids?” 

You’re radiating annoyance and indignation and you know Paz is well aware of it.

Your new husband fixes you with a look that would normally melt anyone into a puddle, but you’re not budging. 

“Cyar’ika, I said _this_ time. _This_ job. Not all of them.” 

“I would like to point out that this feels less like a negotiation and more like my husband is giving his new wife an order to stay behind to cook and clean in his absence.” You arch a brow at him, and you know your eyes are sparkling and your cheeks flushed— and the effect that can have on the man sitting across from you. 

“That’s not— I didn’t mean it _that_ way.” He’s clearly flustered, growing angry with himself for making you feel as though you’re weak or incapable. 

You can’t take another moment of this. 

Your face splits into a huge grin and you stop trying to hold back the giggles, “You’re way too easy, mister.” 

He tries to scrunch his face into a scowl but he’s unable to keep from laughing with you. 

“You little— you had me going, I’ll admit. You’re quite the actress.” He reaches out and pulls you into his lap where he’s sitting at the galley table. 

“See? A valuable skill. I _could_ be useful.” Your tone turns playful and sweet as you run your fingers along the soft, well trimmed beard at his jawline. 

“Not this time, and not this job. Gedet’ye, Cyar’ika, it’s not safe for you. You’re not incapable, but you’re not a beroya. You will have plenty to do with our business and I expect to do as much of the work around here as you do. This bounty is— My aim is to bring them in alive, but it’s not likely that I can. I have to try, though.” 

“Your deal with Greef?” 

“ _Our_ deal with Greef,” he says gently, then kisses your cheek. “I hope we never need to hold him to his end of the bargain as far as you’re concerned, but we still need to hold up ours.” 

“And, I suppose, I need to get that guest room in order. If his ship is as bare bones as you say perhaps he and his son might like to spend the night here while we discuss what’s going on and what we’re going to do. At the very least we should have comfortable quarters for the baby while we talk.” Leaning your head against his shoulder you begin to make a mental list of what you have to hand and what you’ll need to dig out of the cargo bay. 

“I don’t know if he would accept. He has pride, and a lot of it.” Paz sounded disapproving, and you can’t help but chuckle. 

“So that’s just a general Mando trait, then?” 

He laughs, then, and puts his arms around you. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He kisses the top of your head. “You’ll keep me humble, ni’Riduur. I know you don’t approve of what he’s done, or how, yet here you are concerned that you’re offering adequate hospitality. Is that the innkeeper in you or something else?” 

“He’s still a member of your tribe. He’s still your beroya, who sacrificed and worked to provide. He did do the right thing, eventually— and there’s a child involved. That poor baby didn’t ask for any of this. So, despite everything he’s still your family, and so is that child. Of course I’m going to welcome them into your home. Our home. Just like you did with my family the night we left Nevarro.” 

“I’m sure the offer will be appreciated, even if it isn’t taken.” His hands start to wander, and when he speaks next his voice has gone soft and full of adoration, “Speaking of offers, I recall making one earlier this morning and you telling me you wanted caf and a shower first— and you’ve had a shower and two cups of caf—” Despite his imposing physical presence and his unmistakably masculine aura he still somehow manages to look positively _coquettish_ as he gazes at you with a gleam in his eyes. 

“Hmmmm, I vaguely recall something— what was it, again?" 

You know very well what he’s after but it thrilled you this morning to hear him say it, it always thrills you to hear him say it, and you want to hear the words from him again. 

He growls deep and low, scooping you up in his arms and then walking across the room to set you on the galley counter. His lips meet yours in a hot, hungry kiss. 

"I want to taste you. I want to eat you. _Drown_ in you.” He kisses you again, open mouthed and greedy, “Need to hear the way you moan my name, need to taste you on my tongue— make you come undone until you can’t take any more—” His large, warm hands are kneading at your hips as he begs.

Since the first time he had taken you with his mouth, the first time he had ever done that with a woman, he had been hooked. Once you were bound by the riduurok and he could watch your face, looking you in the eye as he took you over the edge? He was insatiable. He’d ask for it as though it was something you were doing for his pleasure instead of the other way around. 

“How could I say no when you ask me so sweetly?" 

In a flurry of hands your clothes are discarded and you’re bare before him. Scooping you up again he takes you back to the table, laying you out like a dish at a banquet. He sits, wrapping his strong arms around your hips and thighs and brings you to his mouth at the edge of the table. 

He’s hungry this morning. 

***

Paz pauses at the hatchway before hitting the button to lower the ramp, “The purser droid will be by for the berthing fee in an hour. It should have a list of the suppliers that will deliver— don’t forget to get more butter and extra milk.” He leans forward, helmet in hand, to give you a kiss goodbye. You allow yourself a moment to melt against him, trying not to think too much about the fact that he’s heading off to hunt someone dangerous enough that ‘ _take them alive, if you can_ ’ was the sole directive for the job. 

“Mmm, I promise I won’t forget. I’ll get the water in this afternoon, but I’ll wait until you’re back to swap the filters. I’m still not confident when it comes to hooking up the scrubbers.” Leaning your head against his chestplate you sigh, and then stand straight and cup his cheek. “I love you. Hurry back, but be safe.” 

He kisses you on the forehead and nods once, then puts on his helmet and hits the button. You stand beside him, admiring his strength and his size and marvelling that this Mando is all yours. Your riduur. Your husband. 

He looks back once after he’s down the ramp, then he’s striding his way out of the dock yard and off to find his quarry. 

***

The purser was efficient, as expected, and arrangements for berthing, water, and power were negotiated and settled favorably and fast. This place was busy enough and had enough resources that they didn’t need to charge premium rates and out of the way enough to give you some wiggle room to haggle on the prices depending on the currency you were willing to use for payment. 

With that out of the way you took the list of suppliers and hit the comms, ordering the few things you were going to run low on and getting some fresh meat. Paz had told you about the baby and the frogs, and though that wasn’t among the delicacies offered by any of the merchants you managed to order frozen nuna legs and arrange for a nice specimen of a local species of fish to be cryo-packed and sent over. The seller promised to include a popular recipe in the package when you asked for cooking times, much to your relief.

The shopping done, you turned your attention to scrubbing out and outfitting the guest quarters. Paz had removed some of the bunks to create the brig, and in doing so had created a fairly large and accommodating suite. There was a table and chairs, two beds and a closet space with plenty of floor available should the child want to play. In the matter of a few hours it was stocked with toiletries, clean and fresh bedding, and some light snacks plus bottles of water and tea in the small chiller that sat under the counter of the sink. 

Once the deliveries arrived and everything was put away, though, you were sorry you had gotten it all done so efficiently, since now there was nothing left to do but wait— and worry. It wasn’t your nature to be unnecessarily anxious— but this is no ordinary situation. 

Obviously you have no illusions about what the job of bounty hunter entails, and obviously you know that Paz couldn’t have made the deal he did with Greef if the Guild Agent didn’t think Paz capable. Still, he was going to try to bring in an obviously dangerous target _alive_. That increased the risk to a point you couldn’t get comfortable with. You knew he’d try to do as asked, was determined to do as asked, not just for the sake of his pride but in order to have a way to keep you safe if he needed to. 

A sick feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, brought on by guilt and frustration tinged with anger at the entire situation you’ve found yourself in. You’re also suddenly hyper-aware how everything that happened is also the catalyst for your marriage and now that fact is clamoring for its own share of your anxieties. 

You don’t believe for one second that Paz resents the position he’s in, and you’re pretty sure he’d have been just as protective of you if you hadn’t agreed to be his wife, or even his lover. You had been seeking out and cherishing each other’s company for long enough that you were sure of _his_ feelings. But would others be as sure? Will his tribe accept his marriage to an aruetii? Will his family? If they don’t— How can he be happy if the foundation of his cultural identity is at odds with his heart? 

You long to talk to your mother the way you used to when you were young, before your lives were ripped apart as the life flowed from your brother into the dirt. Nothing was ever the same after that, but if you could you’d take her hand right now and ask her to help you be sure you’ve done the right thing. Ask her if she’s happy for you, if she’s proud of you, if she remembers the stories she told you of warrior kings and wizard princes— Stories that feel more real now than when you first heard them. 

You had dreamed of marrying a brave knight, who did right and acted nobly in all things, making hard choices and sacrifices for a clear greater good. You had spent hours with your mother, working in the garden or at some project or other, dreaming out loud with one another about the man who would be good enough, kind enough, smart enough, and loving enough to capture your young heart. 

Then everything changed and the stories withered away, locked up behind dusty covers and sad eyes. Your father was no longer jolly and distant, but cold and distant. You were alone now in the universe and when he channelled his rage and his grief into ambition, perhaps thinking that if he gained enough power he could make someone pay, he grasped onto anything within reach that could further his ends. He sold you, as you’d sell a speeder or a breeding bantha, to the highest bidder and never mind the consequences. 

That’s when you stopped believing in happy endings. 

And yet— here you are. After all that time, and in the least likely place imaginable, he found you. He found you and he fell in love with you— and it wasn’t a spell, or a potion, or a curse. He fell in love with you slowly, over time, because you were wholly yourself with him and he could be himself with you. You fell in love with him because he shared the values you held to be the most important, believing in family, community, justice, and equitable treatment for everyone. 

But would that be enough for him? If everything left to him fell apart could he find a home in you? 

_Okay, that’s enough, what ifs— might as well ask what if you had five arms and four legs._

Sighing, you sit at the banquette in the lounge, chiding yourself for getting in knots over things that may not come to pass. 

_Don’t get yourself in knots, you always say. Well, you’re bound now, aren’t you?_

You wonder if you’re the only person in the galaxy who has an inner monologue that is such a kriffing smartass. 

***

You sat and waited for two nights. 

The first night was fine enough. You puttered about, went through some of your personal items in storage in the cargo bay and added a few things from your crates to the dressers and closet in your quarters, then took time you rarely had in abundance to pamper yourself before bed. It was almost sinfully luxurious to lay spread-eagle on that soft bed, halfway buried in a pile of fur and wearing nothing but the smile that graces your lips as you imagine how you’ll welcome your husband home from the hunt. 

You slept well enough, never having minded sleeping alone, and got started on your day after caf and breakfast with the checklist of things to check and re-check on a ship this size. It kept you busy for a few hours, then you were at a loss for what to do. You grabbed your data pad to read, but couldn’t concentrate and found yourself continually checking the chrono. 

The day dragged on. Finding enough to fill your time was proving impossible, at one point even going to the astrometry stations to check on the droids, who obediently allowed you to run (totally unnecessary) diagnostic checks on their systems. You don’t speak droid, but they have limited output in basic so at least you could have a basic conversation, though the list of subjects they could speak on was woefully short. You oiled their joints, cleaned their ports, and checked their power cells and they thanked you the way droids do, with unfailing courtesy. 

Maybe you can expand their language databases? Add additional memory and improve their utility?

_You are not seriously so bored you’re considering putting droids through pre-school just so you can have a conversation partner, are you?_

No, you weren’t bored. You were on edge. The last time he left you you sat in the dust and cried, and this time you’re not crying— No, there’s no concern that he won’t want to come back, or that his creed or his tribe will prevent his return. 

This time you only have the danger he’s facing to do his duty to think about, and the feeling is so much worse. You weren’t a stranger to violence. You also were well aware that your husband had led a long and violent life. Fighting and hunting came to him as naturally as breathing. It’s who he was, what he did and what he taught others to do. He had his armor, and his own careful determination to keep himself safe. 

Still—

His body is littered with scars. Some smooth and sinuous, some raised and jagged, and all of them a testament to the hard life of a Mando. Bounty hunters and mercenaries, they make their living dispensing the justice others are too soft to do for themselves. Many don’t make it to old age, either through inattention or odds too great to overcome. Many are hunted still by the Imps or other factions in an endless cycle of retaliation. 

So you putter about, worried. The evening closes as you attempt to exhaust yourself by rearranging the storage in your quarters. An hour passes, and then two. When you’re putting the last of it away you spy Paz’ tunic folded neatly on top of the laundry hamper. Picking it up without thinking you sink into your bed and hold it to your face, inhaling the scent of him that still clings to the fabric. 

A restless sleep descends and you wake often through the night, tossing and turning, still clinging to his shirt for comfort. 

As your dreams come and go and you sink and surface in the ocean of sleep you come to realize that it’s not just fear for your Mando that has you on edge. You’re nervous about meeting the other beroya, as well— and the deal with Greef. You’re not sure if you can trust him, or if you even _should_ trust him, and so far you’ve got a lot riding on him not betraying any of the four of you. 

***

The next morning as you’re sitting in the lounge, trying to consume enough caf to feel human again, you hear the hatch alarm make a series of beeps that signal it’s being opened from Paz’ vambrace control. 

He’s back. 

His quarry is alive.

—and they’re slurring their way through a drinking song? 

You head down to the cargo bay to see exactly what the kriff is going on and are greeted by what appears to be a very drunk quarry and a very drunk hunter. 

Paz’ head swivels up to you at the top of the ladder. The Trandoshan follows his gaze as best he can, wobbling enough that he’d have fallen by now if Paz hadn’t been holding him up. 

“This yer— yer woman?” The quarry weaved about and belched quietly. 

“S’ ‘er! She’s so pretty— tol’ ya— tol’ ya she’s—” Paz seemed to be weaving about and looking for what he wanted to say, his hand up as he clapped the Trandoshan on the back hard enough to make him double over. That’s when you see him give you a discreet signal towards the carbonite frame and another that you didn’t quite catch—

“Tol’ ya she’s the hottest! She got— she got _moves_ ,” he intones seriously in his bleary voice. His hand makes the same motion again out of the quarry’s sight. 

_So that’s his play, huh?_

_‘Not this job,’ he said, the little son of a bantha. Ha!_

_Right. Showtime!_

You come down the ladder into the cargo bay, swaying your hips a bit and thankful you had on a dress that showed off your curves well enough that they might be enticing. 

“Hello, darling, who’s your friend?” Your tone is light and bubbly, trying your best to sound a bit ditzy. 

“He’s yer husband!” 

Paz lets out a booming laugh, "Yeah! M’ your _riduuuurrr_! Why you callin’ _him_ darlin’?" 

You’re lifting the Trandoshan’s chin with one finger and smiling brightly at him, eyes aflame with interest. Almost imperceptibly, at least to a suddenly lust-addled and drink-besotted mind, you’re walking backwards and leading him across the open floor towards the wall on the port side. 

"I’ve never been so close to such a fine specimen of your race before,” you coo as you keep leading him backwards, assisted ably in your wayfinding by Paz making small signals of left or right.

“Didn’t know a Mando’d wanna share—” 

You can see where you are based on the floor grating and it’s time to use those moves that Paz is now relying on. You smile up at the quarry and he grins back, reaching for you— and then you take his upper arms and flip the two of you around and push him against the wall. The Trandoshan grins as you step back and turn teasing, biting a finger and staring up at him through your lashes with flushed cheeks and a saucy smile— as Paz comes around on your right side beyond the quarry’s view.

It’s over in a split second as Paz slams his hand down on the button to activate the frame. The quarry didn’t even have a chance to realize what was happening and once the air cleared the slab showed his face frozen in a lecherous smile. 

“Well,” You say, brushing your hands against one another in a dismissive motion, “If he survives the carbonite you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain.” 

Paz pulls off his helmet and sets it down on top of the frame, reaching out to you and taking you in his arms. “Your performance was stellar, Cyar’ika.” He’s stone cold sober, the entire thing having been an act on his part. Gone was the bleary voice and the stumbling, shambling movements and he was back to his usual self. 

“So was yours! I actually thought you were off your launchpad on some high octane bathtub crap,” you laugh as you rest your head against his chest, happy to be in his arms again. Happy to have him home. 

He tilts your chin up and gives you a soft kiss. “I’m glad to be home, I missed you. Any caf on?”

“Yes, I’ve got caf on and I have breakfast ready to cook. Hungry?”

“Starving!” 

“So then you’ll be in the mood for steak and eggs with some fried chokeroot? Toast and caf on the side with some blumfruit preserves?”

“Sounds del—” He was cut off by the beeping of his vambrace. A message. “They’ll be here in five minutes. He must have been watching the ship and saw my return.” 

“Then I guess I’m making breakfast for four.” You smile softly at him, cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss. “If I had known being your riduur involved quite this much cooking, cleaning, and shaking my ass enticingly I would’ve stayed home. It pays better when I do it at the bar,” you teased gently.

“You were singing a different tune the night before I left— I recall something about ‘never letting me go’ and ‘too good to you, you’ll do anything’— That was you in our bed, wasn’t it?” His own teasing grin comforts you in a way his kiss could not. He’s home, your man, and he’s happy and feeling fine. 

“Yes, that was me. You’ll have to start wearing your bucket to bed so you can use the visor to aid your aging vision, my love.”

"Forty six cycles is _not_ ‘aging’ and as soon as we retire for the night I’ll remind you just how vigorous I am,” he purred into your ear. He kisses you, slow and soft, a delicious contrast to his promise to take you apart later. 

Another signal from his vambrace and reaches up and grabs his helmet from the top of the carbonite frame and slides it on. Paz heads to the ramp switch, “They’re here.” 

The hatch raises and the ramp lowers. Standing there is the beroya, armored much like Paz is now, his plate unpainted and shining in the morning light. In his arms is a little bundle of what looks like rags until it moves and a little face peeks out with the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen in a body that small, and ears to match. The Mando’s got the baby wrapped in an old cloak, the little one’s fists gripping the cloth as he stares, wide-eyed, at the brightly lit cargo space. 

Then the baby spies Paz and all the shyness of being in a new place disappears. He reaches out to Paz, grabbing at the air and baby-babbling. 

  
“Hello, little Womp Rat,” says Paz gently. “You remember me?” 

The beroya comes up the ramp and Paz reaches for the child, taking him easily in one arm and clasping forearms with his beroya with the other. There’s tension there between them as they greet each other in Mando’a, but that of contentious brothers, not enemies. The baby reaches out and pats Paz’ chestplate, cooing curiously and then babbling something with great seriousness and an air of finality. 

“Ah, you like the new beskar’gam, do you? Yes, I agree it’s an improvement.” As he lets go of the other man’s forearm he lightly chucks the baby under the chin and then gives his little round tummy a tickle through his robes. The sounds of the child’s delighted giggles echo through the ship and you’re enraptured. 

Paz turns back to the beroya, putting his free arm lightly about your shoulders, “This is my riduur, the one who gave you the thrower.”

The beroya’s posture straightens and his helmet tilts at the mention of your relationship. 

“Riduur?” His voice is deep and gravelly, yet somehow still soft. He hesitates a moment. Then “Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Kaysh’karta ni jate’kara. Ni’nau’ul o’r werda.”

“Ori’jate, vod. We haven’t had much good news lately and it will be a welcome chance to celebrate.” 

“When we’re all together again,” replied your husband. 

The beroya turns to you as he takes a reluctant child from your husband’s arms and settles him against his hip, facing outward, with the baby’s hand in his and the beroya’s right hand cradling a tiny rump. Little three-toed feet peek out from under the robe, kicking delightedly back and forth. 

“Thank you— for the weapon. Congratulations on your riduurok.” He makes a slight bow to you, and the politeness strikes you as out of place in such an informal setting. He’s uncomfortable, that much is evident, but why is not exactly clear. 

“Come, join us for breakfast. I was just about to cook something and there’s caf, or tea if you wish?”

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Come on, vod.” Paz slaps the beroya on the back, “There’s a shower and hot water and a sonic for your clothes. Leave your ad with us and go treat yourself.”

The smaller man hands his ad over to Paz, his shoulders dropping as he sighs, and follows him up the ladder. 

***

You’re in the kitchen cutting cold, boiled chokeroot when Paz comes in a few minutes later. 

“I showed him the guest quarters, and I’ve talked him into staying for a few days. He’s beyond needing a rest and if he doesn’t slow down soon he’s going to burn out.” He bounces the baby in his arms, his helmet tiled down as the little one pats the visor and babbles happily. ”You did a wonderful job there, Cyar’ika. I barely had to do any convincing at all,” he chuckles. The baby laughs in response, waving his hands around. 

“I got some smaller cups, thinking if he could hold his own it might be easier for him. He’s so _small_ — I hope they’re tiny enough.” 

As if he understood you the baby turned his face to you and gave you a cute open-mouthed grin, trilling a greeting at you and waving a tiny hand. His little mouth contained two rows of pearly, wickedly pointed teeth. 

_Definitely carnivorous, and most certainly meant for live prey that might try to wriggle away._

The baby laughs, as if in agreement, and his tummy rumbles loud enough for you both to hear.

_Right. Force user. Good thing you’re adorable._

“The baby things I bought are in the cabinet there on your right, the tall one. Can you get them out, maybe give him a bit of milk?” 

The two of you busy yourselves, you with the meal and Paz with the baby and setting the table. The child is so small that he’s well under the table in any of the seats you’ve got, so Paz sets him on the table-top to enjoy his drink. 

You listen as he talks quietly to the child, in Mando’a and Basic, asking questions and waiting for the babbled answers and hand gestures to cease before replying, himself. 

“Your buir will need rest, little one. Ashnar shupuur gar’buir, ke nu baatir. Some rest will fix what’s wrong.” He reaches out with a large finger and strokes the child’s ear, then leans in and presses his helmet to the tiny, wrinkled forehead. “Our tribe is scattered, and those of us left have to take care of one another.” 

The baby reaches out, his little claws clicking on the beskar as he pats the sides of Paz’ helmet in a gesture of mutual comfort. The scene tugs at your heart and you find yourself having to turn away as tears prick at your eyes. They’ve all lost so much. Too much.

You’re setting out the eggs and heating their griddle when the beroya comes back. He pauses at the door for a moment, taking in the scene. 

“Can I help with anything?” He sounds more relaxed, less tense and less uncomfortable. 

“No, you’re our guest! Please, sit— the food should be ready in a few minutes. He’ll eat steak and eggs?” You nod your head towards the table and a happy and noisily sipping child. 

“He likes meat, not sure about eggs.” He sighs, sits and starts to say something— then stops just before speaking. 

“I’ll feed your ad while you two go forward and eat in the cockpit,” you say over your shoulder as you turn the steaks. The flatbread is already in the oven, toasting, and the fried chokeroot, golden brown and crispy, is keeping warm in with them. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a little one to amuse. My friends’ children are all grown up now.” 

The greased griddle is ready and you break half a dozen eggs onto the shiny metal. The sizzle is immediate and the sound seems to perk everyone up. Paz comes over to the counter and grabs the caf to pour out more, starting with your cup on the counter. He pauses next to you, leaning in and pressing his helm to you in a keldabe kiss. 

“It smells delicious, Cyar’ika.” 

“Mmmm, only the best for my riduur,” you say quietly, leaning into the brief embrace. “There’s some fruit juice in the chiller, can you set it on the table?” 

The eggs are just about done so you pull the food out of the oven, placing the bowl of chokeroot fries, the plate of toast and the steaks on a platter. Paz carries it to the table while you dish up the eggs on plates, earning yourself a wide-eyed stare from the child as you carry the four at once and set them down. 

You serve a steak to each of the men and then encourage them to grab toast and chokeroot, preserves and pickles, and get themselves up to the cockpit to eat while their food is still hot. 

There’s much humming over the delicious smells and you shoo them off, beginning to carve the remaining steak into pieces for you and the baby to share. When you hear the cockpit door slide shut you turn to your remaining guest. 

“So, _do_ you like eggs?” You smile at the child and he smiles back, then stares with interest at his plate where you’re laying out pieces of meat and root, some toast, and a little bit of the preserves. You cut up his egg for him, having seen that though his coordination is fairly good he is still child enough that it’s better for you to use the knife. He giggled and picked up his fork, beginning to eat. 

You talked as you ate, not for any reason aside from the fact that the little one’s ears perked up adorably at the attention, something you could easily understand. 

“Here,” you say as he struggles to get a piece of egg on his fork. “Use a bit of your toast to help push the egg, like this—” You demonstrate and he watches you tear off a bit of toast and use it to help a particularly wiggly bit onto your utensil. 

Tiny hands put down the fork and grab the toast, tearing off a small piece. He grabs his fork again, and this time, with the toast as a pusher, he’s successful. His delighted giggle telegraphs the child’s pride at learning a new thing, but is quickly stifled as the egg is shoved into a waiting and hungry mouth. 

He eats each dish on his plate in its entirety before starting on the next one, as children sometimes do, so when he’s done with his egg he moves on to the steak. It’s not long before he’s had every bit on his plate, seeming to very much enjoy the rarish meat. 

Next he considers the chokeroot. It had turned out wonderfully, crispy and golden, and you had flavoured the dish with some mild spices and a bit of salt. It’s obviously an unfamiliar dish, unlike the egg and the meat, and there’s much prodding and poking and feeling with his fingers. 

You pick up one of the cubes from your own plate and bite into it, then set the remaining half down on your plate so he can see the inside is different from the outside. 

“See? It’s just chokeroot, boring old boiled chokeroot, but it’s been fried and seasoned. A very good thing to have with eggs and steaks and very easy to make. My riduur, your buir’s vod, he likes it when I make them like this, with bantha butter and some ojomian onion. I like to add chandro peppers, but I didn’t have any this time.” 

Looking down at his own plate he reaches out and grabs one in his hand. He squeezes and the crust breaks, with a bit of the fluffy cooked root inside squashing out. He considers it carefully, and with his ears down in fearful anticipation he brings his hand to his mouth and licks at the home-fry. 

Two large eyes grow even bigger and two ears rise up as the rest of his handful disappears into his mouth. The next one is picked up more gently with a happy bit of babble and popped in after, the slow close of his eyes and busy chewing tell you all you need to know. 

You hear the whoosh of the cockpit door opening and Paz and the beroya making their way back to the kitchen. 

“Cyar’ika, that was delicious,” your husband comes over and gives you a keldabe kiss, then heads for the sink to follow the beroya in scraping, rinsing and stacking his plate in the cleaner. 

The other Mando sits down with his son and turns to you, “Thank you.” He reaches out and gently strokes the peach-fuzzy head of his ad, “For everything— He told me what happened. What you were trying to do. After everything—” He stops and his breathing hitches as he shifts in his seat as if he’s been shocked. The baby, who had been busily eating, stops and toddles closer to his father, patting the beskar cheeks of the helmet and cooing softly. 

“You need rest, vod,” says Paz from the counter where he’s making more caf. “We have bacta, medication. More than enough that treating you won’t put a dent in our supplies.” 

“Yes, but— I need to explain—” 

You raise a hand and cut him off, gathering yourself before you speak. At the counter in the galley area your husband stills instantly, his visor on you. You know he won’t step in or chide you for speaking your mind, but you can feel him willing you to be careful. 

You know he loves you, and that his love for you is beyond reason— but he loves this man, too, in the way only those raised from childhood to fight and kill together can. Despite the difficulties and all the hurt he is family and comrade. He is part of your husband’s tie to the deep past and the future of his heritage. There’s a moment of what might pass as jealousy, but it’s gone in an instant. This isn’t just your husband’s tribe, his family. _It’s yours, as well_. 

We share _all_.

“I don’t want you to explain— at least not now. Not in front of your son.” You glance at the little figure now sleepily sipping on some juice, happy that his tummy is full and his father is nearby. “There’s no reason for him to hear what you have to say, and I have questions— Well, he doesn’t need to hear any of it.” 

He nods and exhales slowly. 

Paz visibly relaxes, “Come on, let’s settle the little one. I’ll get the medkit and then you can sleep as well. We’ll go back to the Crest and get anything you need for the next few days later on. There’s no rush. Gar shuk meh kyrayc.” 

The hunter at the table laughs, deep and rough, “Always the ori’vod. How many times have you said that to me?” 

“Too many. As many times as you ignored your injuries and the need for sleep. Come on, vod’ika, we’ll make plans for the next step after you’ve rested.” Paz comes over to the table and picks up the little one, placing him high on his shoulder. He’d removed his pauldrons when they were having breakfast and the baby nuzzles happily into his shoulder, smacking his little lips contentedly. 

With a barely suppressed groan he rises from the table and follows Paz out. 

As they enter the hall the baby raises his head and large, dark eyes seem to bore into you. There’s a heavy feeling in your head, something not quite unpleasant, but it feels—

It feels _clumsy_. Inartful. 

Then— something. Not words. Not a picture or a scene. A feeling? More than that, surely. A feeling with a dimension you weren’t aware of before. 

A cold metal ball fills your palm, but there’s nothing there. Heavy and dense, but it makes you feel safe. Anchored. The taste of something metallic, the way beskar smells when it’s got a fresh scratch. Like durasteel but with a brightly sour edge. The taste is a gift, a promise of something that feels new— known but new. 

The feeling falters for a moment as the little forehead creases and you realize what’s happening. The baby can’t speak, can’t tell you what he wants you to know, but he can let you feel the thing he needs you to understand most. It’s not malicious, he’s just desperate for you to understand _something_. He’s frightened and you can’t tell why, but he seems to think you can help him. 

_I don’t understand, but I’ll try, little one_.

His head sags back onto Paz’ shoulder and his eyes close, the heavy feeling fading when they turn the corner.

You sit in the relative silence of the ship at rest, elbows on the table and your head in your hands. It’s all too much. So many unknown things, mysteries that you can’t begin to understand how to unravel. Paz has told you as much as he can, but the last fifty years of the child’s life are lost to all of you. His father is injured, he’s scared, _and_ he’s strong enough to be able to heal wounds, manipulate fire, and project his feelings. If he’s as traumatised as you think he likely is, how volatile could he be if he thought his father was in danger? 

You’re not going to suggest going to the Jedi. That’s not even a last resort, as far as you’re concerned. 

No, you have an idea where you might be able to find a force user who isn’t allied with any particular side. Except maybe _your_ side. At least, you hope that’s still the case. 

TO BE CONTINUED

_Me’vaar ti gar = How are you? / What’s the situation? / How are things?_

_Kaysh’karta ni jate’kara = Her heart is my destiny/guiding star._

_Ni’nau’ul o’r werda = My candlelight in the dark._

_Ori’jate = excellent_

_Ashnar shupuur gar’buir, ke nu baatir = Someone hurt your parent, but don’t worry._

_Gar shuk meh kyrayc = You’re of no use dead._

_Ori’vod = Big brother, older brother._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A bit o’ smut. Two scoops of breeding kink in the same cup. Incredibly brief mention of suicide. Mentions of canon incidents of violence. So much softness. Din bein’ a soft dad. Baby being cute. Paz being a grumpy bear. Tea.
> 
> Characters: Paz Vizsla, Reader, Din Djarin, Baby Yoda, The Boiler from Chapter 1. 
> 
> Author’s notes: It’s here! Lord, I have gone so soft. Then again, they’re currently in a safe place and aboard a well armed ship in a secure dockyard. For now. Enjoy!

Lost in thought at the table you fail to notice Paz return about twenty minutes later. From the way he’s calling to you it would seem he’s been trying to gain your attention for quite some time. **  
**

“Sorry, my love, I guess you caught me thinking a bit too deeply, there. What were you saying?”

“I said they’re both fast asleep. He’s had a bad wound— deeply infected. Cleaned it out a bit and gave him bacta. He might need more than we can do with what we have. He had me give a dose of bacta to the baby, too— something tells me they’ve been in far worse circumstances since the last time I saw them.” He shakes his head, “He won’t go back to the covert. He believes it will endanger them further if he does. He’s also worried they’ll force him to turn the child over to the Jedi— or worse.” Your husband sits heavily at the table, cradling his helmeted head in his hands. “He is agreeing to stay here only because he knows how much you despise them— knows you wouldn’t allow them to take his son.”

Reaching out you rub his neck just under the edge of his helmet, trying to ease the tension. “He isn’t necessarily wrong to have concerns. Mandos and force-users have been at odds for so long there’s a reason to worry about the child being accepted, let alone nurtured." 

He looks up and says, "Is the child being nurtured now? Is this in any way the best way to raise a child? He’s on the run, they eat mostly ration packs, he has to leave the child alone too often. Facilities are primitive at best aboard the Crest and he’s been running low on funds.”

“Between the two of you, how many pucks do you have?” 

“Six left. He took two quarries before he met up with us and I have three, still. Why, what are you thinking?” 

“How many have firm locations?” You grab your datapad and fire up a specialist nav program. 

“Four. Two are tracking jobs.” He leans over to watch as you enter a series of locations and then pass him the data pad. 

“Can you enter the known locations and any known location information for the other two?” 

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” He’s grousing but he’s still got his glove off and is entering the information. 

“This is a nav calculation program used by couriers. It’s usually kept pretty locked down, but someone owed me a favour. Once we have a chance to talk to your beroya and get whatever information he has we can use it to calculate the current most efficient route to all of these destinations.” 

“You want to team up?” He wasn’t expecting this. 

“No, I want us to keep an eye on everyone until we can figure out this mess. We can do that if we pool our resources to finish these jobs. It’ll give your beroya time to rest and heal, repair his ship— if he’s stuck somewhere with a busted ship or too sick to defend himself we’re all at risk.” 

He looks back down at the datapad’s screen. “Greef is keeping us at the edge of everything, close to the least populated areas of the outer rim. These hyperspace lanes here,” he traces a line of safe passage that the program has highlighted as the quickest route between three of your stops, “They’ll cut off three days over taking the main route. We could head here, here, and here,” He pointed at the screen, indicating the three farthest points, “—and then come back this way.” His finger traced a series of hyperspace routes that would bring you back to the fourth destination. 

“Do you think he’ll agree?” 

“I don’t know yet. He was surprised by you, by what I told him. I’m not sure how he feels about accepting more help after what it’s already cost you.” 

“Pride?” 

“Shame. He’s changed in these last months, the people he’s lost or hurt— the foundling, the covert— so many others, too. It’s been nothing but hurt and loss.” He stops for a moment, his eyes looking through the wall of the lounge to somewhere else.

“It’s been a very long time since he called me vod— or ori’vod. We were close when we were young. Trained together, hunted together. Then— things changed. I changed, he changed— we grew up and I don’t think it was easy for either of us, but in ways too different for us to bridge the gap.” Your husband sighs heavily, “When he was slipping under as the bacta hit his system he told me that he was sorry, that he only wanted—” His voice wavered and he took a breath to gain some control, “He tried to do right, and it turned to ashes— I think the only thing keeping him going right now is the baby.” 

“Maybe it’s time he had someone on his side. Sounds to me like he could use some looking after, and if there’s one thing I’m good at it would be looking after stubborn, hard-headed Mandos without them realizing it’s happening until it’s too late.” You grin at his visor and his gruff laugh spills through the com. 

“Do we have any appointments today, Cyar’ika?” He rolls his shoulders under your hand, sounding worn out. 

“Nothing and no one will disturb us today. You should go get some sleep, my love. I don’t doubt you’ve been awake since you left here,” you chide him gently. 

“I slept a little,” he huffs defensively. 

“See? You’re tired and you’re cranky and no one as well armed as you should be going about their day cranky.” You’re trying not to smile but, Maker, is it hard to keep a straight face. Yes, he’s a massive warrior who can crush someone with his fists— but right now he’s also an adorably pouty pet beast that just needs gentling. “Our guests will sleep for hours yet, and they’re not the only ones who need rest.” 

“I am not _cranky_ ,” Paz grouses, crankily. 

“Mmmhmmm,” comes your non-committal hum. “You had a brief nap and that’s wonderful. I’m guessing then that you’re absolutely sure that if you stay up all day you’re absolutely going to have the energy to— what was it? ‘Show me just how vigorous you are’, yes?” 

He stands and with surprising speed scoops you up out of your chair, cuddling you close to him against his chestplate, “You are a terrible wife, teasing your husband this way.”

“I am the best wife— the best wife and the only wife you will ever want to have— and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck and whisper, “Now, take me to bed, Riduur. Your wonderful wife wants a nap with her perfect, handsome, kind, generous, and loving husband.”

With a low growl he tightens his hold on you and stalks out of the lounge and down the passage, taking you into your quarters and gently laying you on the bed. He slides the door shut and starts to remove his armor, his exhaustion evident in his slow movements.

You help to remove his cuisses and knee plates, carefully setting everything together for later cleaning. Slowly you pull off his gear, piece by piece, chestplate, backplate, vambraces— as each piece is laid aside the tension begins to melt from him. This ritual you have together, the stripping away of everything upon entering this room, might be new to you both but it was already a cherished part of your marriage. Knowing that here there was nothing else in the galaxy but the two of you, that nothing else existed or was able to come between you was exactly what you both needed most in the quietest moments. 

When he is finally bare and with his helmet off you guide him gently into bed, settling him in the furs. As you undress you drink in the sight of warm flesh over hard muscle, framed in the pelts of winter beasts— 

He’s watching you, his sleepy eyes not missing the quickening pace of your breath. 

“Come here,” and he reaches out for you to lay with him, straddling his hips, his slowly filling cock twitching against your already slick slit.

Leaning forward you kiss him deeply, reaching to grab his hands and bring them up beside his head on the pillow. Breaking the kiss you nudge his nose with yours and whisper, “I missed you.”

Paz smiles, “I missed you, too.” He rolls his hips against you, fully hard now, his lips capturing yours in another slow, lazy kiss. A cant of his hips and yours and he’s sliding inside, the slow drag making you both breathless. 

Paz tries to move his hands, but you keep him pinned, pulling back just long enough to whisper, “Let me take care of you— just relax.”

He sinks into the bed, a soft sigh brushing against your lips as he gives himself over to you. You kiss him, deep and slow, moving your hips in time with the languid motions of your lips and tongue, losing yourself in him..

You take him the way you’d take him in your mouth, swirling your hips and taking your time. Every breathy gasp you draw from him, each flutter of his eyelids and growl that rumbles through his chest— they spur you on to please him more and more, hitting the spots over and over that make him tremble and writhe under you.

As you pull his pleasure from him your mind is filled with thoughts of him with the child today, with your own daydream of bearing the next generation of Clan Vizsla. 

“Cyar'ika,” he moans quietly, breathless and sounding completely wrecked. “I won’t last— Oh, Maker it’s too good—” His grip on your hands is tight, his skin slick with sweat and his chest heaving.

You slow your pace to bring him back from the edge of desperation, “Shhh— it’s okay. Just let go—” You release his hands and gently stroke his face, his chest. “This is all for you, just let me make you feel good, let me take what I want—” 

“Anything,” he gasps. “I’d do anything for you— ner’karta, you’re everything—”

“Then fill me— put a warrior in my belly. Fill me up and mark me as yours for all to see.” 

Paz’ soft moans are choked off with a gasp, his body stiffens and he grabs your hip with one hand as the other cups your cheek. He’s shaking like he’s about to come apart, his orgasm ripping through him without warning, eyes unfocused and lips parted in silent ecstasy. Even as he begins to keen quietly from the overstimulation you ride him steadily through it until the last aftershock has subsided. 

He pulls you down into a deep, lingering kiss and caressing you everywhere he can reach, fingers and palms skimming over your curves hungrily, still trembling and panting. 

“Mmmm,” he hums. “That was _unexpected_.” Nuzzling into your neck he huffs a laugh against your skin, “I haven’t finished like that since I was a young man still in training.” 

You wrap yourself around him, keeping his still half-hard cock buried in you, lazily squeezing him just to hear his breath catch a little and feel the small shudders run through him. “I definitely didn’t expect quite that reaction. Can’t say I’m disappointed, though. You look so good, coming apart like that for me, gasping and senseless—” You press a kiss to his chest and feel him twitch inside you. 

“Did you mean it, Cyar'ika? About wanting a baby?” He’s stirring a little more insistently now, his cock filling and stretching you.

“I mean it— I think I wanted that without really knowing, and it’s not like we’ve been careful. I— I didn’t even think about precautions, and I don’t think you did, either." 

"Hmmm, no. I didn't— I just—” He pushes his hips into yours, his length insistently firm, throbbing and _hot_. “I never— I hadn’t spilled inside a woman until you. I don’t know— was always so careful— but you—”

One strong arm comes around your back and one large hand grips your rear as he flips you over so you’re underneath him. He starts thrusting slow and deep, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes bleary with lust and love.

“Cyar'ika— I can’t help it. From the moment I was first inside you— needed it so bad— needed to fill you, feel you taking all of me, everything I have to give—”

His thumb finds its way to your clit, stroking slowly in time with his thrusts. Paz knows exactly the pace to set to bring you over the edge and he is not in the mood to tease. No, right now he is focused solely on giving you exactly what you need, the touch you crave, the perfect stroke of his thick cock hitting just the right way to make you forget your name, where you are— everything falling away but him and the way he makes every nerve and every neuron sing with sweet fire.

“Just the thought of you, full of life, ripe— blooming— M-maker, I can’t wait to see it—” He kisses you then, a kiss full of so much desire, and the change in angle hits something deep in you. You feel the tightening in your belly, the rush of pleasure cresting. Paz can feel it coming, can feel your walls gripping him and he moans against your lips, “Cyar’ika— I can feel you. Gedet’ye, mesh’la, please— I need it, need you—” 

The sound of your husband begging for your pleasure is your undoing and you cling to him as you shake with the force of your sweet release, his name a reverent whisper on your lips. He crashes down onto you, plunging deep and burying his head into the crook of your neck, moaning his adoration to you. 

“Paz— Oh, Maker—” Breathless and trembling you hold him to you, feeling as though he’s going to split you wide open. 

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum— you’re light in the dark— fire in the cold—” His voice is low and soft in contrast to the brutal pace of his hips pounding against you, chasing his pleasure. “I won’t ever be happy without you— never want to be apart from you— my r-riduur, ner’karta—”

“ _We will raise warriors_ , my love.” Your whispered words in his ear have him groaning, straining. “Come, riduur— give me everything. Give me a warrior—” 

With that he’s lost, his choked moans muffled in your shoulder, his thrusts stuttering as you feel him fill you. His pace falters and he moans low and long as he grinds deep, chest heaving, his arms coming around you and holding you tight. You cradle his head, soothing with soft touches along his back and shoulders, kissing his bearded cheek and humming contentedly as he rocks slowly into you, his pleasure taking its time to ebb away.

When the last thrilling shudder has ceased he collapses next to you, gathering you up against him. Soft kisses and gentle touches pass between you, lulling you into a quiet and calm sleep.

***

You woke up a little over an hour later, Paz still wrapped around you and snoring ever so slightly. Making a mental note to adjust the environmentals you extricate yourself from your husband’s embrace carefully so as not to wake him and rise to dress. 

After visiting the fresher you turn to head back towards the lounge, your mind on getting the checks done and chores out of the way so that when Paz and the beroya awaken there won’t be anything pressing to do. The sound of the guest quarters door opening pulls you from your thoughts. 

“You should be sleeping,” you say quietly. 

“I couldn’t— there's— I have dreams.” He still sounds half asleep and seems to startle at his own confession. This is not a man who is in the habit of opening up, but right now he’s beyond tired, beyond reason. 

“I have just the thing for that. Come on,” you beckon him to follow you and he does, his movements liquid and easy despite his current physical state. 

You wave him over to the table to sit and you head for the counter. Filling the boiler and pulling some herbs and bottles of dried flowers from the shelves, you’re keeping your hands busy and your back to him as you start to speak.

“I don’t know exactly what he’s told you, but you need to know— before anything else is said— You need to know you’re welcome here. This is a home for you, too. He’s your vod and you’re his and whatever passed between the both of you years ago doesn’t change that. Whatever it is that has happened since doesn’t change that.” The boiler is bubbling and you prepare a pot of tea that is fragrant and soothing, with a combination of flowers that should provide some much needed vitamins and roots which will ease any lingering muscle stiffness along with providing a mild soporific effect to help ease him into a more restful sleep.

There’s the sound of soft, sleeping breathing coming from his vambrace. He’s rigged up a baby monitor? 

“Thank you. I can help pay— I have credits—” 

“Please don’t,” you interrupt. “I said you were welcome. As family. As tribe. I’m not Mando by birth or choice, but I have bonded myself to one and I intend to be the best riduur I can be for him. Besides, you’ll need your credits to fix your ship and resupply. If you get caught because you’re unprepared we’re all karked and everything we’ve done up to now is lost.”

“I just don’t want to take away from what you might need.” He sounds as though his pride is injured, but he’ll need to get over that pretty quickly if this is going to work.

Setting the teapot and two mugs, one with a drinking tube, on the table you sit across from him and give him your steadiest gaze, right where you know his eyes must be behind the visor. 

“I have not been poor in a very, very long time. I have my own cantina, and it’s popular. I take a cut of any side-business that’s run out of my place, as well, so I can afford to be generous with my credits and with my time.” You pour out the tea, pushing the bottle of uj'ayl towards him. "Mando culture isn’t the only one that values generosity and communal living. This is as much my own faith, my own way, as it is yours.”

“He said you didn’t even hesitate— you just handed over what you thought we needed. No questions. No expectations.” His head tilts slightly, his body language that of cautious curiosity. “At breakfast he said you had weapons, more than he had seen in one place outside the covert—”

His mention of the home they had lost seems to knock the breath from him for a moment. You choose not to acknowledge it right now, knowing that conversation’s time is coming but you would prefer Paz be there for it.

“I bought a shady cantina from a shady ex-smuggler. If there hadn’t been a secret cache of weapons included I think every single bad action-holo-producer in the galaxy would have rioted.” You glance up at him with a grin, and a rough laugh registers through his com. 

“Yeah, I see your point.” He shoves the straw under his helmet and takes a sip of tea, then reaches for the syrup to add more. “How’d you end up on Nevarro?" 

Laughing, you pause for a sip from your own cup. "It’s funny how no one ever asks ‘Why did you go to Nevarro?’, just 'How did you end up there?’.”

“It’s not exactly a tourist destination." 

"No, I guess not.” You take a moment to consider how much to tell, and realize there’s no reason not to tell him everything. He’s not about to start judging your life choices, not when he considers his own, is he? “I was on the run in a minor way and in need of stability in a major way. A friend of a friend had heard about the cantina. I had the money to buy it and no ties to anyone who would make the town seniors nervous. I didn’t plan it out, and if I had thought about it a little harder I don’t think I would have done it. I don’t regret it but it was a big risk at the time.”

“You fought in the war.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, didn’t everyone? You couldn’t avoid it.” You keep your gaze level, knowing what the next question is going to be and wanting him to see that you won’t flinch.

“Which side?”

“My own. No different than anyone of your tribe. I kept my little patch out of the hands of anyone looking to take it and I fought to keep innocent people out of the grasp of anyone looking to crush them.”

He stirred his tea and took another sip through the tube, swallowed. “You lost family, he says, to the Imps and the Jedi.”

“I lost a brother, who was conscripted against his will by the Empire, to the foolishness of Jedi who didn’t see him as an innocent caught up in what amounted to slavery at the hands of their enemies. Everyone lost someone, though. Before it was called a ‘war’, during— and after. There’s been nothing _but_ loss for so long.” 

You blow the steam from the cup and take a swig to give yourself a moment to gather your thoughts, and the silence that slips between you is not an uncomfortable one. You can still hear the baby through the com in the beroya’s vambrace, the quiet, shushing murmur of his sleeping breaths bringing an air of peace and calm.

“You asked for bacta for your ad. Why? What happened?”

“Someone dropped him. He was taken by troopers and they definitely beat him. We’ve been on the run so long and so much has happened— now I’ve got an infection and the kid keeps trying to touch it. I can’t get him to stop putting things in his mouth—" He sighed heavily, and toyed with the straw in his cup, “I didn’t want to take the chance that he’s sick, or that there’s an injury I can’t see.” He sips again and seems to savour the sweet, herbal brew. “How much do you know?” 

“Everything you told my husband, and the few things I’ve been able to figure out for myself.” 

“What do you mean?” His curiosity is piqued, the straw forgotten in his fingers as all his focus turns to you.

“He’s sentient and powerfully force sensitive, obviously. He’s also capable of understanding just about everything anyone says to him. He followed a set of instructions at the table this morning that a normal toddler who was pre-verbal probably couldn’t have with the same facility. He’s well coordinated for his size, but he’s not had a lot of experience with _things_. It’s like life is all new to him, even though a lot is familiar for him to see it’s not familiar for him to be doing it. I think he’s been abused and neglected. I know he’s frightened. Not of you, or us, but he’s scared of something.” 

“He’s had a lot to be scared of. I don’t think anyone will ever get the full story.” 

“I don’t know about that— which brings me to another point— I also think I know how to look for his people. At least, how to begin the search sensibly— if that’s what you want to do.” 

He stills completely. No sound from him, just the steady sleeping breaths of his son from his vambrace.

“Drink your tea. We have a lot to discuss, but you need to rest first. Nothing will happen until— _unless_ — you want it to, and until then you’re here with us and safe.” You keep your tone gentle, hoping he truly understands that you’re not pushing one way or another.

The beroya nodded, and sucked up the last in his cup. You rose with him and took the cups to the washer, he paused at the door and turned back, but said nothing and simply turned around and walked slowly down the corridor. 

***

Paz joined you in the cargo bay a few hours later as you were finishing up the last checks in astrometry. You were headed over to the port side lower panel when he came down the ladder. 

“I missed you when I woke up.” He comes over to you and you sink into his embrace. 

“I had been hoping to get this all done and be back in bed by the time you finally had enough napping, but I was delayed by your beroya. He had some trouble staying asleep so I made some tea and then sent him back to bed after a bit of a chat.”

“Hmmmm, and what did you two talk about?" 

"I made it clear to him that he’s family, tribe. That your life is also my life now and I won’t shirk my duty as your riduur. That he’s safe here, his son is safe here, and we want to help.”

“So you soothed the worries he can’t express and made him some tea that was no doubt full of your herbs and roots and other mysterious things— and then you sent him back to bed?” He sounds amused and pleased as he cuddles you to his chest, “You are going to be the best buir. Look at how well you can manage a pair of stubborn Mando'ade without them even realizing.”

You laugh a little, thinking about how the men in your life bring out the instinct to protect, support and nurture them. You were all born into a galaxy of strife and struggle and immense cruelty, yet even in the midst of all that they’re trying to carve out a place where they can be safe and secure, a place where they can make a home for love and light. How could you do anything less than your best to see they’re able to face everything this universe will throw at them or deny them what little comfort life has to offer? 

“I hope so. At least any ad of ours will have your inherent stubbornness mellowed a bit by my own easy-going and relaxed attitude, no?” You bury your face in his chestplate to hide your saucy grin as Paz shakes with his own laughter. 

“Do I need to remind you that less than a few weeks ago you were ready to take a self-inflicted blaster bolt to the head so you couldn’t betray us and the child instead of just letting people _help_?” His arms tighten around you and he runs his hands up and down your back. 

You’re just about to give him a snippy reply when a gravel-coated voice rings out from where the beroya is standing at the top of the ladder with a sleepy baby in his arms, “She was going to do _what_?” He came down the ladder into the bay, “Why would you do something so— _why_?”

Oh, kriff. Why do these Mandos always seem to show up right when they’re going to hear something upsetting? Hopefully your future children have a more appropriate sense of timing.

The sudden and uncomfortable silence is broken by a happy squeal from the baby who took advantage of the sudden attention, waving his arms at Paz and blowing a raspberry. Paz was helpless to resist the siren call of those big eyes and wee button nose framed by giant ears and strode over to take the baby. Hefting him up on his shoulder with one huge steadying hand almost completely engulfing the little back he clapped his vod on the shoulder, “My riduur here is a stubborn woman, vod. She promised nothing would harm us if she could prevent it and she was not prepared to let herself break that promise.” Paz turned back to you, and reached out for your hand. When you slipped yours into his he continued, “She was willing to lose everything, even her life, if it meant keeping us all safe.” He faced the beroya again, his voice softer and full of care, “She’s learned recently that asking for help isn’t the end of the world, and that you can rely on the people who love you to be on your side. You don’t have to do it all on your own.”

The beroya seemed to collapse just a little inside his own armor, his shoulders rose once, dropped, and then he gave a shaky sigh that ended on static through his com. “It’s a good lesson,” he says with a voice that’s threatening to break but still under his control.

“Come on,” gruffs your husband. “Let’s show your ad how to make a proper batch of snacks and a proper pot of caf. You still remember how to make gi dumplings?”

“I remember enough to know that you’re the one making the dough. Yours always turned out better.”

“I always had more patience when we were young. Things change.” Paz squeezed your hand in his, “Come up when you’re done, Cyar’ika. We’ll lay on the skraan'ikase and open some of that wine that Kresas gave you.” 

The baby laughed, delightedly, and Paz lightly pressed his helmet to the tiny forehead. “Not you, ad’ika. For you we have the finest milk and some treats that won’t blow those ears off.”

As they head up the ladder you turn back to your work, anxious to join them— to sit in the circle of warmth and light that you only find among family. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A tiny touch of implied smut. No actual smut. Domesticity. Brothers trying to figure out how to be family again. Reader is very much in love. Paz is very much in love. Baby has a BIG surprise for everyone. Reader may have an even bigger surprise for everyone a few chapters from now. 
> 
> Author’s notes: None, really. It’s been a hell of a century, these past two months. I love y’all for sticking by this and by me through it all. xoxo
> 
> Characters: Paz Vizsla, Reader, Din Djarin, Baby Yoda

Heading to the fresher for a quick shower and a change of clothes you can hear the men in the galley talking indistinctly, punctuated by the higher pitched vocalizations from the little one. Sounds of busy hands clattering kitchenware float down the hall and there’s a warm, domestic feel to it all. **  
**

You lather and rinse quickly, then wash your hair, glad to be rid of the grime that can’t be prevented when you’re crawling around in the ship’s workings. Stepping out and briskly toweling down in the fresh, cool air revives you and gets your blood pumping

Paz had better hope he’s still in the mood to be ‘vigorous’ later or he’s going to find himself in a bit of trouble. Ever since this morning your entire being seems to be thrumming with an undercurrent of lust. You were definitely satisfied with your earlier activities, yet you wanted more. A lot more. 

Smiling at your own reflection and thinking to yourself that your husband is in for the shock of his life if he thought you were simply 'in the mood’, you slipped a dress over your underkit and combed out your hair. No, you weren’t just ‘turned on’. You felt downright insatiable. 

All of that will have to wait until later, though. For now there’s a quiet afternoon and evening ahead of you, with food and fun and family. 

Thoughts of Kresas, Dradru, Dukuk, and Kabodo come flooding into your mind, stealing your breath and clenching your heart. Stars, you miss them so much. It’s the longest you’ve been away since the day you decided Nevarro would be your new home and though you don’t regret this new way of life you can’t help feeling a little hollow when you think of them, like there’s a piece that’s missing. 

You’re lost in thought for a minute or two, absentmindedly folding and refolding your towel. When you hear a noise at the doorway you startle out of your daze and look up, wondering for a moment if there’s something wrong with the mirror— your reflection has gone all wavy. 

There’s no one reflected behind you, and when the sound comes again it’s accompanied by a gentle pat on your calf. Looking down, you see the baby peering up at you, ears low. He’s seemingly trying to comfort you in your distress, cooing and then reaching out to be picked up. 

As you swing him up into your arms you hear a commotion from the kitchen as two men begin to frantically search about for the little escape artist currently patting at your chest and babbling in a serious tone.

“Did you feel me being sad, little one? Hmmm? You toddled all the way down here just to cheer me up?” His little face turns up to you and breaks into a toothy grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I bet your buir and my riduur are probably about to start checking the oven for you, so how about we head—”

You don’t get the chance to finish the sentence because there’s two very large, well armored men bursting into the hall, cursing up a storm and with incredibly tense body language. 

“Vod, how could we lose him? He was _right there on the firfiek counter_!” Paz is practically shrill, or as shrill as a barrel-chested Mando can be through a com, no doubt thinking of all the little spaces someone so small could disappear into where they would be impossible to find. 

“He— he’s very good at hiding.” The beroya is on the edge of panic, his harsh breathing coming through the com as static. 

“Excuse me, Mandos,” you call down the hall. “I believe I have the bounty you’re searching for right here?” The baby throws his arms up and giggles as if to say 'here I am!’. 

They stop dead in their tracks and as soon as they catch sight of their quarry in your arms both men visibly sag with relief. 

“There you are, little womp rat,” his father, coming forward to claim him, says gently. The beroya takes the child from your arms and folds him into a strong, fierce hug. “You have to stop running away without asking, ad’ika.” The deep affection he has for the little green toddler rang in every word. “It’s fine for you to explore, but you need to be careful. You’re too small to go off on your own.” 

Two three fingered hands patted his beskar chestplate, as if to calm him. The baby smiled up at the silvery beskar and dark visor, cooing once and then blowing a raspberry as he gestured at you. 

“Did you go to find your ba’vodu? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?” Paz’ deep baritone is gentle as he pats the small back, “I can’t blame you, I hate it when I’m away from her, too.” 

“You keep talking like that and I’ll marry you again.” You grin at your husband, knowing your face must be alight with the feelings he inspires in you. “But we should save the mushy stuff for later, yeah? How’s dinner coming along?” 

“Better than I expected,” gruffed the beroya. “I remember more than I thought— Your riduur hasn’t forgotten anything.”

“We share the cooking only because I have to do my fair part.” Your laughter echoes a bit in the hall, “He’s much better than I could ever hope to be, except when it comes to breakfast.”

“Well, we should get back to it. Those dumplings won’t wait.” Paz slips his arm around you and leads the way back to the lounge. 

***

Many mysterious dishes took shape and were placed in steamers and baking pans and pots. Once everything is prepared and the dials turned, the oven and stove top begin quietly puffing the most delicious smells through the room as the men wash up to join you at the table. 

You’re entertaining the baby with some simple flimsi folding, using a square piece to make birds and stars, little porgs and trees— and the child’s favorite, a little frog that jumps when you push down on its bottom. He’s entranced now, playing with his little frog, fully occupied with trying to make it jump to the left or right and carefully flicking his claws down one way or another to try to make it go how he wished. 

Paz slides into the booth next to you, and your guest sinks down into one of the comfortable seats on the outside of the table. His son toddles across the tabletop, waving his frog and gesturing for attention from all present. Carefully and with obvious intent he adjusts the back legs, pressing the folds between his fingers. Setting the frog down he looks up to make sure everyone is watching and when he’s confident all eyes are on him he flicks at the back end of the little paper frog and it executes a perfect flip, landing in almost the same spot. 

“Jate! Jate, ad'ika!” His father reached out, patting a tiny shoulder. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. His visor turns to you and Paz, “He’s healing from— from whatever it was they had done. His coordination is getting better, he sleeps less now. I _think_ that’s good—” His voice trails off, and he looks back to his son who is happily examining his toy’s intricate folds by tracing them with the tip of a claw. “I just don’t know enough— I wish he could talk— _would_ talk. I don’t even know what he likes— if he just goes along with things because he’s afraid of what will happen if he doesn't—”

“It will all take time, Mando. You can’t undo a lifetime of abuse or neglect in a few months, but it’s obvious to anyone who has eyes that he needs you, trusts you.” Reaching out, you squeeze his gloved hand. His visor swings to you, and he pauses with an almost preternatural stillness before squeezing back and letting go. 

“Look,” you continue, “If he wasn’t willing to go along with you, if he didn’t trust you, do you think he would have been so overjoyed to see you in the hall earlier? Your body language was mildly threatening in your fear and he didn’t even hesitate to draw your attention— and now, here, his first thought was for you to share in his fun. Have patience. With him and with yourself. Particularly with yourself”

The mando’s visor now swings to your husband, and some silent communication passes between him and Paz. 

“I told you, didn’t I? She’s sharp like a beskad. She’s also right— and I’m right, too. You can’t keep living the way you have. It was bad enough when it was just you, but you have your ad to care for now. Let us help you get re-fitted, get healthy. Let us help you buy enough time to face what’s next— for all of us to face what’s next.” Paz leans back and picks up the datapad on the shelf behind the banquette. Placing it on the table he turns it toward the beryoa, tracing the routes you had looked at earlier. “We can work together— save ourselves some time and take a few more jobs— bigger jobs. Between your contacts, mine, and hers we can begin to clean up this mess. We’re in this together, now, whether we like it or not.” 

The silver helmet turns to the data pad, and he picks it up to look at the route you’ve mapped. He lays it back down on the table, saying nothing, remaining still. The silence in the room is heavy with unspoken hurts and old wounds, with new anxieties and uncertain views of possible futures. 

He sighs and taps the data pad, opening the edit menu on the map. He makes a few entries, looks at the map again, and then makes a few changes. Satisfied with the results he passes it back to Paz. 

“I have a mechanic who’ll work on my ship. I can leave the Crest there while we continue in the A’den. She’ll give me a fair deal and berth the ship after the repairs if I need it. If we stop there first it adds three days, but one ship is a smaller target than two— and yours is less well known than mine.” 

“Then we’ll prepare to head to your mechanic in two days. You need rest and we can use the time to prepare to move your frame and armory, plus whatever else you’ll need in the long term.” Paz is lost in thought, planning out how to change the space to accommodate the additional gear and weapons. 

“We can head over there after the meal. If we’re here for the next few days I’ll need his pod and a few other things.” He turns to you, “Would— could you look after him while we go? We can work a lot faster if we’re not chasing him.” 

The baby could tell he was once again the subject of the table’s attention and his ears perked up as he fiddled with his toy.

“I’d be happy to. I think I’ve got plenty to keep us busy while you two sort the move.” You turn to Paz, “I’ll comm the suppliers again, pick up some more food and another set of scrubbers, and get the water done again before we go, too. Can the A’den take the weight of the reserve tank? We’re going to be in and out of gravity wells a lot—”

“It’ll handle that and more. We’ll check the baffles again just to be sure. If we get enough out of the jobs coming up we should think about the collapsibles, instead. The steadier we are in atmo the better.” 

“More to break down, and can’t be damped the same when they’re full,” the beroya begins. “If you want to conserve space and distribute the weight better get shaped tanks with the crossed baffles. The A’den is wide enough you could run at least one along the length of the back bulkhead in the cargo bay— replace the main tank and then some.” 

“That would definitely take a big load off the repulsors— free up processing space for the droids— make corrections more efficient—" Paz starts to chuckle, stops and sighs, “It’s like old times. You always think five steps ahead— always have a better option. I wish—” He sighs again and sits back in his seat, falling quiet. 

“We’re older and maybe a little wiser now. It doesn’t have to be— we don’t have to stay on that path if we don’t want to.” The beroya reaches across the table and gently strokes the perked-up ears of his ad, “We have to rebuild. We can’t go back— can’t change the past, but we can let it go." 

"We can,” agrees your husband quietly. “Living in the past has been a disaster for all of us. Tradition should guide us, bind us to each other— not to past mistakes.” He angles his visor towards you, “What do you think, ni’riduur?”

“About what, exactly, love? There’s a lot on the table.” 

“About all of it. I didn’t seek out your advice for so long just because you gave me a good deal on a drink,” he reaches out and traces a finger along your cheek, then takes your hand. “I know this was your suggestion, and you were right about all of it, but this also means you staying behind on the ship for now, looking after a baby, caring for the four of us and the A’den. I know that’s not how you envisioned the start of our bond.” 

“What I envisioned was being with you— making a life with you.” Squeezing his hand, you bring his gloved knuckles to your lips and press a kiss to them. “I’m willing to face whatever challenges come my way, including trying to look after the three of you while you’re on this grand hunt.” 

Paz turns to your guest, “And you, vod? This isn’t exactly how you’re used to living. It isn’t forever, but it’ll be long enough that if you’re not sure it might seem like it.” 

“I’m ready to admit I need help. I can’t do this on my own— the kid, the bounties, fixing the Crest— and you two are going to need all the help you can get. How’d you let Greef talk you into this deal? You’re good, but—” The silver helmet tilts to the side, waiting for your husband’s answer. The child seems to grasp the seriousness of the moment, sitting down in front of his buir and looking at Paz expectantly. 

“I made a deal with Greef that if I can’t protect her he’ll hide her where she’ll never be found. That, and that she’ll be safe. If—” Paz rubs his thumbs along the back of your hand. He can’t say it, and you feel relief because you can’t bear to hear it. 

The baby stands, opens his arms wide and blows a very wet and very loud raspberry, then proceeds to vocalize what can only be construed as deep annoyance with a series of grunts as he waves his arms up and down for emphasis. His frustration is obvious, his ears waggling and his forehead screwed into wrinkles of concentration— and then—

“Aaah-yeet! Ah-yeeet!” The little one blurts out, everyone else at the table stunned to still silence that he had _spoken_. He turns to face his father, and trills “Buurrrrrrrr!” as he pats the table in front of the beskar chestplate. He approaches Paz, walking with purpose, saying “Boduu!”, again patting the table in front of his ‘uncle’. Then he comes to you, and again he says “Boduu!” and pats the plasteel surface. Turning back to the center of the table he taps his little chest with his clawed hands and says “Ad!”, then slaps the table roughly with both small hands, declaring “Ah-yeet!” with great finality— sitting down as if he’s settled it all, a sly and satisfied look on his face. 

“Did he just— Ad’ika! Jate, jate!” He swept up his son in his arms, his voice breaking, cuddling the little one close with surprised laughter. The child seemed delighted with his father’s praise, his pride, and giggled happily as he grabbed at fistfuls of cowl and cloak. 

"I think—” says Paz with a voice filled with secondhand pride and a fair amount of surprise, “I think your ad has decided it for us.” He chuckles quietly, reaching out to stroke an ear, “You are correct, little one. We are aliit. Your buir is my vod, and my riduur and I are your bavodu’e. We will always look after each other, no matter what. A very wise reminder.” 

The beroya settles his son on the table again and addresses him seriously. “Is this what you want, ad’ika? You want to work with them while Peli fixes the ship?” 

A solemn nod is punctuated by a very deliberate pat on his father’s helmet and a quiet coo.

"Okay. We’ll stay with our aliit until this is sorted out.”

The baby babbles happily and then goes back to playing with his frog, seemingly satisfied that things are going the way he wants them to and entirely oblivious to the shock of everyone at the table. 

“He never said a word until now. Not even—” The beroya sits there shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what had just happened. “He called me ‘buir’—” His voice trails off, his visor pointed at his son.

“Of course he did,” you say gently. “Anyone with eyes and ears can see he thinks you created the stars. You saved him from Maker knows what, but it can’t have been a good life— and then you kept saving him. Kept sacrificing for him. He’s a child, yes but he’s smart and can see as clearly as anyone that you’re a devoted parent.” 

Thankfully the maudlin mood is blown away like fog when the baby’s stomach lets loose with an impressive, burbling growl. He swings his gaze away from his toy to look at his father and babble to him for a moment before he looks pointedly at the kitchen area. 

Insecurities and the unknown take an immediate backset to the bustling and busy work of finishing the meal. Paz and the beroya return to the galley and begin poking and prodding at steamers and pots, then get stuck into the last of the preparation. You get a table cover, plates, and utensils from the drawers in the dining area and with the little one’s help you set the table. 

He watches you intently, mirroring you to lay out placemats, plates, forks, knives and spoons. He watches how you quickly lay out everything evenly, using the first joint of your thumb as a spacer, and he copies you but uses his entire small palm to make up for the size difference. 

When he finishes he beams a big, toothy grin at you, obviously pleased with himself. Yes, he’s a lot farther along than he’s been able to express, which makes you wonder just how stressful the last cycles have been for him. Maybe if his buir finally has a chance to relax instead of just barely holding everything together the baby might come out of his shell even more, which might be just what his father needs to gain some confidence. 

Sounds of triumph ring through the room as the steamer is opened and the two Mandos carefully dish up delicately folded dumplings, their skins so thin you can see the carefully arranged ingredients inside. A pan of braised nuna legs is lifted out of the cooker, then a delicious looking and spicy-smelling vegetable stew, and finally the beroya pauses at the oven door. He takes a breath, seeming nervous, then reaches in to pull out an intricately knotted loaf of bread, the crust shiny and golden brown. Paz, still at the stove, pulls forward a small pot that had been bubbling away on the back burner and dishes out a less dark and mysterious looking vegetable stew onto the little one’s plate and turns to his vod, “See? I told you it would be perfect. If you stop worrying about how the dough looks and concentrate on how it _feels_ when you’re kneading it you can’t go wrong.” 

The beroya huffs a laugh and claps your husband on the back, “Always the instructor, huh? A lesson inside a lesson and never irrelevant.”

“This is the way,” Paz intones with amusement as he brings the food to the table. “Can’t teach you anything directly— you’re too stubborn. Have to approach it like giving an akk dog a pill, hiding the medicine inside something palatable.” 

A wet dish towel comes whipping across the space and smacks against Paz’ helmet, setting off gales of laughter in both Paz and the baby, and you can’t help but join in. It feels good to see him and the beroya together like this. You can picture what they must have been like as boys, rambunctious, full of spirited fun, and it only solidifies your desire to see Paz as a father— to see your own children grow up surrounded by so much love. 

Paz comes to sit beside you, slipping an arm around your shoulders. “We’ll sit with you two while you eat, then we’ll head up to the cockpit for ours.” 

“I have a better idea. How about we eat and then you two can stay here and have your meal while I take the little one for a bath and get him ready to settle in for the evening. This way you two can relax and enjoy yourselves before you have to go back to the other ship and start the serious work. The little one and I will tidy up here to keep busy while you’re gone.” 

“You mean we don’t have to do the dishes? That sounds like a good deal, Cyar’ika. You sure you don’t mind?” 

“You cooked, I’ll clean? Seems fair to me.” 

***

Dinner was delicious. The tender dumplings were a favourite of the baby, and watching him eat them with relish as he beamed his approval at his father and ba’vodu was the highlight of the meal. Watching him swallow nuna legs whole, on the other hand, was a stark reminder of how little any of you really knew about who this child was or where he had come from. 

Conversation was light, and you and the baby ate quickly enough that it was still moderately hot for the men’s turn at dinner. As you swing the now very full baby up in your arms he giggles, burps, and begins to babble happily. Giving your husband a keldabe kiss, you make your leave to bathe the giggling bundle— something that doesn’t seem to have been high on the priority list up to now. 

***

The ‘fresher was warm and the baby seemed content enough to be here as he wandered about, examining the little tub you had bought for hand washing delicate laundry, the bubble bath, and the towels. You got the sonic ready for his little robe and the tiny suit he had on underneath, and idly wondered if you could repurpose one of your old coats into a few new robes for him. 

“I’m going to set the tub in the shower to fill it, and you can have your bath in there where it’s less drafty.” Setting the small tub down on the tile you fill it from the spigot, adding some bubble bath gel. As the foam rose higher the child’s attention was caught and held fast, making you sure this wasn’t going to be any trouble at all. 

“Do you need help to get undressed? We’ll put your clothes in the sonic and they’ll be nice and clean when you’re done in the bath, okay?” 

The child raises his arms and babbles a bit, so you help him off with his robe, then his soft little shirt and adorably tiny pants. He is painfully small, his little legs and arms spindly, his stomach and bottom a little more round than you’d expected— though his father did say his appetite has been close to insatiable lately, so he must be putting on some weight. 

“Okay, let’s put them in the sonic and turn it on.” 

The child toddles over to the machine and pushes in his garments. Shutting the door, he turns to you with a questioning coo. 

“It’s the big green button. Just push it once.” 

He does and when the machine hums to life he turns to you with a grin, then toddles over to inspect the tub. Three little clawed fingers drag through the bubbles, his little fist closing on the foam. On his tiptoes he peers in, reaches down until he can feel the water under the foam, and splashes around a bit. Bubbles fly off and float through the air, making the baby squeal with delight. 

He’s a pile of contradictions. His intellectual development is at least a decade ahead of other children of the same level of physical development, but his emotional development seems closer to that of his physical. He’s cheery and bright, a happy child overall, but there is a panicked and haunted quality to his insistence that you all remain together. He’s been traumatized, the scars that streak across his green skin a testament to the tough life he’s been trapped in, but at the same time he appears completely comfortable in these new surroundings and with new people. 

“Ready to get in and get washed up? Once you’re done we can tidy the kitchen and then you can help me pick what we’ll order for supplies tomorrow?” 

Babbling happily he reaches up to be lifted, legs kicking as the foam hits his toes. Once he’s settled he welcomes being washed, letting you scrub him without complaint. He closes his eyes tightly when you move to wash his head, so he’s familiar with baths at least. 

As you work you begin to hum a song that your mother used to sing to you. Shortly there’s two voices echoing against the tile of the fresher. The tiny little chest rises and falls as he hums along, trying to match the tune that starts over after just a handful of bars. Slowing down, you hum three or four notes and let him repeat them, then move on to the next. After two or three tries, as you scrub what seems like a year of dirt from between his little toes, he’s got it. Now you’re both humming quietly as he plays absently with the bubbles, waving his hands so the foam detaches and floats about the shower stall. 

You hope that soon enough you’ll be looking after one of your own like this, bathing them in the tub and humming in the lazy warmth. Your mind starts to wander, thinking about how the beroya had said that they needed to rebuild, but not relive the past. What if this— this arrangement you have now— what if this was a way forward for their tribe, for your respective clans? 

Refugees have, for countless eons, always wanted to find a place to settle. There is a pull in all sentient species for somewhere that is ‘home’, whether that is a place of origin, a place chosen to start anew, or a challenge thrust upon them. What if the Mando idea that family is more than blood could be adapted? What if they could see that home is not walls, or the floor under your feet. It’s the place where you’re safest and among the people who seek to love you and lift you up. 

What if this could be a way to keep the remainder of their kin safe? Lancer Class and similar ships, despite being pursuit vessels, have a layout that allows for a large number of interior modifications. The cargo bay with a deep upper deck running around the outer wall lends itself to being a flexible space for living, storage, and commerce. They’re in a thousand junkyards in varying conditions, so spare parts and even whole ships are easy enough to come by— 

All that will need to wait for now, though— there’s a baby to finish bathing, a kitchen to tidy, and plans to finalize so that you can at least make it through the next thirty days. Time enough to plant the seeds and water them carefully, but nothing will come of it if you rush. 

Patience. You have time…

**Author's Note:**

> Translations for the Mando'a 
> 
> aruetii [ah-roo-AY-tee] traitor, foreigner, outsider
> 
> cyar'ika [shar-EE-kah] darling, sweetheart
> 
> day'duumir [day-DOOM-eer] release, let go (in this context, sexual release or orgasm)
> 
> K'oyacyi! [Koy-AH-shee!] 1. *Cheers!* 2. Can also mean: *Hang in there* or 3. *Come back safely.* Literally, a command; *Stay alive!*
> 
> gedet'ye [geh-DET-yay] please
> 
> riduurok [ree-DOO-rok] love bond, specifically between spouses - marriage agreement
> 
> fierfek - Huttese curse word. 
> 
> mesh'la [MAYSH`lah] beautiful


End file.
